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SOUTHERN AUTHORS IN POETRY 
AND PROSE 



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SOUTHERN AUTHORS 
IN POETRY AND PROSE 



BY 



KATE ALMA ORGAIN 




New York and Washington 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1908 



UBRARY of C0N<5f?ESsl 
[»*o Copies Mttctiv.'' 

AUG 17 ^^OB 



1 



O'l 



Copyright, 1908, by 
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTER 

I. Sidney Lanier 

11. Augusta J. Evans .... 

III. Theodore O'Hara .... 

IV. Mrs. Rosa Vertner Johnson ( 

fith) 

V. John Pendleton Kennedy 
VI. Madame Octavia Walton Le Vert 
VII. Paul Hamilton Hayne 
VIII. William Gilmore Simms . 
IX. James Barron Hope 
X. John Esten Cooke .... 
XI. Mrs. Mary S. B. Dana-Shindler 
XII. Joel Chandler Harris . 

XIII. Mrs. Virginia L. French . 

XIV. Grace Elizabeth King 
XV. Francis Orrery Ticknor . 

XVI. Elisabeth Whitfield Bellamy 
XVII. John Reuben Thompson . 



Grif- 



PAGE 

9 
24 
33 

40 
46 

55 

63 

74 

8^- 

96 

105 

110 

119 

128 

132 

141 

146 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XVIII. Catherine Anna Warfield . . . 153 

XIX. Irwin Russell 160 

XX. George Washington Cable . . . 168 

XXI. Henry Timrod 175 

XXII. Mrs. Mary Virginia Terhune (Ma- 
rion Harland) 186 

XXIII. Edgar Allen Poe . . . . . . 194 

XXIV. Mary Noailles Murfree . . . . 214 
XXV. Maria J. McIntosh 224 

XXVI. Thomas Nelson Page 228 



SOUTHERN AUTHORS IN POETRY 
AND PROSE 



SIDNEY LANIER 

1842— 1881 

This poet was born In Macon, Georgia, on the 
third of February, 1842, and came from a long 
line of fine ancestors. His father, Robert S. Lanier, 
was a prominent lawyer, and his mother was Miss 
Mary Anderson, a woman of remarkable gift in 
music and poetry. A friend once remarked, " No 
wonder Lanier is a poet and a genius. The blood 
that flows through his veins has coursed in those 
of artists, poets, musicians, and royal personages." 

Very early in life Sidney Lanier showed a pas- 
sion for reading, a talent and fondness for music, 
and when a mere lad he delighted in forming 
amateur orchestras of children. Having a keen 
sense of humor, he often kept the family amused 
by his mimicry, and later he utilized this faculty 
of observation in his poems. 

At fifteen he was admitted into Oglethorpe Col- 
lege, near Milledgeville, Georgia, and was gradu- 
ated at the age of eighteen, and then was given a 
position as tutor in that institution. At the break- 
ing out of the Civil War, Sidney and his brother, 
Clifford, joined the volunteers at Macon, Georgia, 



lo SIDNEY LANIER 

and, although several times offered promotion, the 
brothers declined, because they did not wish to be 
separated. They were In the Second Georgia Bat- 
talion of Infantry and were stationed at first 
amongst the marshes of Sewells Point, opposite 
Fortress Monroe. There the men all had much 
sickness and they were ordered to Wilmington, 
and In Wilmington, as Lanier says, " they had the 
dry shakes of the Sand Hills." Their battalion 
participated In the famous Seven Days' Battle 
around Richmond, and later they were sent up to 
Petersburg. Here Sidney and Clifford obtained 
a transfer to Major Milllgan's Signal Corps, and 
finally they were attached to the staff of Major- 
General French. In 1864 the brothers separated, 
as Sidney was assigned to duty of signal officer 
on a blockade runner. He was captured by the 
Federals, and Imprisoned for five months at Point 
Lookout. During this imprisonment the seeds of 
disease were sown which caused his death while 
yet a young man. When he was exchanged he 
came near dying on the voyage to City Point, and 
when at last he reached home, footsore and ex- 
hausted, he was prostrated by sickness for many 
weeks. 

After the war, although his brain was teeming 
with beautiful thoughts, Lanier was compelled to 
bear the monotony and wear of teaching and such 
uncongenial work as clerk In a hotel In Mont- 



SIDNEY LANIER ii 

gomery. He found some time, however, in the 
hard struggle for a hving, to write his first book, 
a volume of fiction called " Tiger Lilies," pub- 
lished in 1867. The book is now out of print. 
It contains many fine passages like the following: 

A man has seventy years in which to explain his life; 
a book must accomplish its birth, and its excuse for birth, 
at the same instant. 

The hills sit here like old dethroned kings, met for 
consultation ; they would be very garrulous, surely, but 
the exquisite peace of the pastoral scene below them has 
stilled their life; they have forgotten the ancient anarchy 
which brought them forth; they dream and dream away, 
without discussion or endeavor. 

How long our arms are when we are young! Nothing 
but the whole world will satisfy their clasp. 

To him who has not loved some man with the ardor of 
a friendship at first sight, one can only say, '' Nature has 
dealt hardly with you, sir." 

Music Is In common life what heat Is In chemistry, an 
all-pervading, ever-present, mysterious genius. 

Late explorers say they have found some nations that 
had no God, but I have not read of any that had no music. 

One might as well be killed with a shower of hail- 
stones as of diamonds; It is but death after all. 

" Sorrow makes poets," Memnon's statue sang when 
the morning light struck It, but I think men and women 
sing when the darkness draws on. 

The great uncomplaining trees, whose life Is surely the 
finest of all lives, since It is nothing but the continual 



12 SIDNEY LANIER 

growing and being beautiful ; the silent, mysterious trees, 
most strong where most gnarled, and most touching when 
wholly blasted. 

In 1867 Sidney Lanier was married to Miss 
Mary Day of Macon, Georgia. Through poverty 
and sickness, in all changes and conditions she was 
to him a loving, faithful wife, an inspiration and 
a blessed comforter. Of her he wrote in his ex- 
quisite poem, " My Springs " : 

Love, O Wife, thine eyes are they, 
My springs, from out whose shining gray 
Issue the sweet celestial streams 

That feed my life's bright Lake of Dreams. 

Dear eyes, dear eyes and rare complete — 
Being heavenly-sweet and earthly-sweet, 

1 marvel that God made you mine, 

For when He frowns, 'tis then ye shine! 

Lanier's earliest passion was for music. He 
learned almost by intuition to play on every kind 
of instrument, — flute, banjo, organ, piano, violin 
and guitar, devoting himself more especially to 
the flute because his father was opposed to the 
violin. He said of himself that his greatest talent 
lay in music. His flute was his constant com- 
panion, and when he was captured during the war 
he managed to hide his flute in his sleeve. When 



SIDNEY LANIER 13 

he went to Baltimore to live and work, William 
Hayes Ward says, " He took his pen and flute, for 
staff and sword, and turned his face northward." 
In the winter of 1868 Sidney Lanier was seized 
with his first hemorrhage, and for four following 
years there was a steady decline in his health. 
Hoping for some relief, in 1872 he left Georgia 
and went to San Antonio, Texas, but even that 
salubrious climate brought him no healing balm, 
and " he was restless as a caged bird, for he 
hungered and thirsted for time and health and 
strength to express his soul in music and poetry." 
In 1873 he gave up law, which he had studied 
and undertaken in his father's office, and went to 
Baltimore, where he was soon engaged as first 
flute for the Peabody Concerts. " Music was to 
him what it is to the birds, what it is to the brooks. 
He played it technically as it was written, but he 
added sunshine and spring air, or the laughter 
and tears of joy and sorrow." Asgar Hamerick, 
the musical director in the Peabody Symphony 
Orchestra of Baltimore, says of Lanier: " I will 
never forget the impression he made upon me 
when he played the flute at a concert in 1878; his 
tall, commanding, manly presence, his flute breath- 
ing noble sorrows, noble joys, the orchestra softly 
responding. The audience was spellbound. Such 
distinction, such refinement! He stood, the mas- 
ter, the genius." In 1879 he was appointed to a 



14 SIDNEY LANIER 

lectureship In English Literature In the Johns Hop- 
kins University, and this meant a regular Income. 
What he might have accomplished with health 
and strength back of his great genius who can 
tell? As It was, often In Intense pain and suffering, 
he delivered his lectures on " Verse " and " The 
Novel." " He was engaged In a three-fold strug- 
gle for health, for bread and for a literary career." 
Although he spent most of the last years of his life 
In Baltimore, yet he was compelled to go away 
often In search of health. During severe Illness 
and In critical relapses, financial relief came from 
his father and brother. How dark some of 
Lanier's days seemed may be judged by his de- 
spairing lines In the poem " The Raven Days." 

O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow, 
Bring to us in your whetted Ivory beaks 

Some sign out of the far land of To-morrow, 

Some strip of sea-green dawn, some orange streaks. 

Ye float In dusky files, forever croaking, 

Ye chill our manhood with your dreary shade. 

Dumb in the dark, not even God invoking, 
We lie in chains, too weak to be afraid. 

O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow, 

Will ever any warm light come again ? 
Will ever the lit mountains of To-morrow 

Begin to gleam athwart the mournful plain? 



SIDNEY LANIER 15 

The works of Lanier abound In expressions of 
deep and abiding faith in God. The poem, " The 
Crystal," is a beautiful tribute to the perfect char- 
acter of Christ. The tenderest thing he ever 
wrote about our Lord was his " A Ballad of 
Trees and the Master," beginning: 

Into the woods my Master went, 

Clean forspent, forspent; 

Into the woods my Master came. 

Forspent with love and shame. 

But the olives they were not blind to Him, 

The little gray leaves were kind to Him, 

The thorn-tree had a mind to Him, 

When Into the woods He came. 

At the instigation of Bayard Taylor, Sidney 
Lanier was complimented with the commission 
to write the cantata for the opening of the Cen- 
tennial Exhibition in 1876. 

Gradually overpowered by consuming fever, he 
went, accompanied by his ever-devoted wife, to 
West Chester, Pa., where his fourth child was 
born. Unable to stand the climate, he soon re- 
turned to his home in Baltimore. At the end of 
April, 1 88 1, he made his last visit to New York 
to arrange about the publication of his " King 
Arthur " series. In December of 1880, " when he 
was too feeble to raise his food to his mouth, and 
with fever at 104 degrees," writes William Hayes 



1 6 SIDNEY LANIER 

Ward, " he pencilled his last and greatest poem, 
' Sunrise,' one of his projected series of the 
' Hymns of the Marshes.' It seemed as if he 
were in fear that he would die with it unuttered." 
The doctors advised tent life, and with aid from 
his brother Clifford, he and his family were ar- 
ranged in tents near Richmond Hill, three miles 
from Asheville, N. C. But the passing time 
brought no relief, and he began a journey in a car- 
riage across the mountains to Lynn, S. C. There 
deadly sickness attacked him, and he died Septem- 
ber 7, 1881. 

His wife and four children, Charles, Sidney, 
Henry and Robert, were left to mourn his death. 

He gave the memory of a spotless life of purity 
as inheritance to his children, as well as his wealth 
of poetry and prose. '' Even to the end, words 
of beauty and love and passion and melodious 
meter poured from his brain, wanting only strength 
to give them out to the needy world." 

His body was taken to Baltimore. Services 
were held in the church of St. Michael's, conducted 
by the Rev. Dr. Wm. Kirlus. The poet's body 
was buried in Green Mount Cemetery in a lot 
owned by Mr. Lawrence Turnball. 

The Rev. W. F. Tillett, of Vanderbilt Univer- 
sity, says: " Lanier was, like Wordsworth, a great 
lover of Nature. Consider, for instance, that poem 
which many critics have pronounced the finest he 



SIDNEY LANIER 17 

ever wrote, from an artistic point of view, ' The 
Marshes of Glynn.' " And again, " Lanier's 
writings everywhere breathe the spirit of ethical 
earnestness, and abound in allusions that reveal his 
deep and abounding faith in God." 

Thomas Nelson Page says: "Lanier died too 
young, but not until he had proved that a great 
poet could come from the South." 

A bust of Sidney Lanier was presented to the 
Johns Hopkins University by his kinsman, Charles 
Lanier, of New York City. Sidney Lanier's prin- 
cipal works are: *' Florida, Its Scenery, Cli- 
mate and History"; "Tiger Lilies," a novel; 
"Poems," "The Boy's Froissart," "The Sci- 
ence of English Verse," " The Boy's King Ar- 
thur," "The Boy's Mabinogion," "The Boy's 
Percy," " The English Novel and the Principles 
of Its Development." 

Among his musical works are " Choral Sym- 
phony," for chorus and orchestra; "Symphony 
Life," in four movements, and " Symphony of the 
Plantation." 

From his last poem, " Sunrise," we quote these 
lines : 



Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves, 
Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me 
Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me, — 
Sift down tremors of sweet-withln-sweet 



/ 



1 8 SIDNEY LANIER 

That advise me of more than they bring, — repeat 
Me the woods-smell that swiftly but now brought breath 
From the heaven-side bank of the river of death, — 
Teach me the terms of silence, — preach me 
The passion of patience, — sift me, — impeach me, — 
And there, oh there 
As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air. 
Pray me a myriad prayer. 



THE MARSHES OF GYLNN * 

Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven 
With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven 
Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs, — 
Emerald twilights, — 
Virginal shy lights, 
Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows. 
When lovers pace timidly down through the green colon- 
nades 
Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods, 

Of the heavenly woods and glades. 
That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within 
The wide sea-marshes of Glynn ; — 

Beautiful glooms, soft dusks In the noon-day fire, — 
Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, 
Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of 
leaves, — • 

* From poems of Sidney Lanier, copyrighted 1884, 1891, by 
Mary D. Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



SIDNEY LANIER 19 

Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that 

grieves, 
Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the 

wood, 
Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good ; — 
Oh, braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the 

vine. 
While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did 

shine 
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine ; 
But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, 
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, 
And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem 
Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, — 
Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of 

the oak. 
And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome 

sound of the stroke 
Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low. 
And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I 

know, 
And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass 

within. 
That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 

marshes of Glynn 
Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me 

of yore 
When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bit- 
terness sore. 
And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable 

pain 
Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain, — 



/ 



20 SIDNEY LANIER 

Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 

The vast sweet visage of space. 
To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn. 
Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the 
dawn. 
For a mete and a mark 

To the forest-dark: — 
So: 
Affable live-oak, leaning low, — 
Thus — 'with your favor — soft, with a reverent hand, 
(Not lightly touching your person. Lord of the land!) 
Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand 
On the firm-packed sand, 

Free 
By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. 

Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shim- 
mering band 
Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to 

the folds of the land. 
Inward and outward to northward and southward the 

beach-lines linger and curl 
As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the 

firm sweet limbs of a girl. ^ 

Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight. 
Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping 

of light. 
And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods 

stands high? 
The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea 

and the sky ! 



SIDNEY LANIER 21 

A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad 

in the blade, 
Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or 

a shade, 
Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, 
To the terminal blue of the main. 

Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? 

Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, 
By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 
marshes of Glynn. 

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withhold- 
ing and free 

Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to 
the sea! 

Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the 
sun, 

Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath 
mightily won 

God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain, 

And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. 

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod. 
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God ; 
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies 
In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and 

the skies ; 
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod 
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God ; 



/ 



22 SIDNEY LANIER 

Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within 
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. 
And the sea lends large, as the marsh ; lo, out of his plenty 

the sea 
Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be; 
Look how the grace of the sea doth go 
About and about through the intricate channels that flow 
Here and there. 

Everywhere, 
Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the 

low-lying lanes, 
And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, 
That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow 
In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 
Farewell, my lord Sun ! 
The creeks overflow ; a thousand rivulets run 
'Twixt the roots of the sod ; the blades of the marsh-grass 

stir ; 
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr ; 
Passeth, and all is still ; and the currents cease to run ; 
And the sea and the marsh are one. 

How still the plains of the waters be ! 
The tide is in his ecstasy. 
The tide is at his highest height: 
And it is night. 

And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of 

sleep 
Roll in on the souls of men, 
But who will reveal to our waking ken 



SIDNEY LANIER 23 

The forms that swim and the shapes that creep 

Under the waters of sleep ? 
And I would I could know what swimmeth below when 

the tide comes in 
On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes 

of Glynn. 



fV 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS 
1838 

Augusta J. Evans, now Mrs. L. M. Wilson, 
of Mobile, was born at Columbus, Georgia, in 
1838. She had eight brothers and sisters, and she 
is, on her mother's side, a descendant of the How- 
ards, one of the first families of Georgia. 

When she was a mere child her father removed 
with his family to Texas. They lived a while in 
Galveston and Houston, and early in 1847 went 
to the then frontier town of San Antonio. 

Mrs. Wilson always retained vivid remem- 
brance of the life there, when the Mexican War 
was at Its height and San Antonio was the gather- 
ing place for United States troops sent to rein- 
force General Taylor, and when society there, 
owing to the unsettled conditions, was thoroughly 
disorganized. Her life necessarily was one of 
much seclusion. There were no schools, and her 
mother conducted her education at home. It was 
during this life of Isolation, when hours of 
thought and reading were developing her mind 
rapidly, that the Idea of writing began to have at- 
tractions for the young girl. 

24 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS 25 

Early in her seventeenth year she wrote " Inez," 
in which she wished to embody the features of the 
Texan war for independence and what she be- 
lieved to be a misuse of the Catholic religion. On 
this account the book received much unfavorable 
criticism, and her judgments were deemed imma- 
ture. Still, " Inez " received many favorable no- 
tices, considering the youth of the writer. 

No one but her mother had known of her am- 
bitious undertaking, until one Christmas morning 
Miss Evans placed her finished manuscript in her 
fathei*'s hands. It was published in 1855, anony- 
mously. 

Continuing a severe course of study Miss Evans 
confined her writing to articles for Mobile papers, 
and it was not till 1859 that " Beulah " appeared, 
being published by Messrs. Derby and Jackson. 
The book became very popular. The thread run- 
ning through the story is the baneful influence of 
skepticism, and the author is very realistic in the 
road over which she makes the heroine travel. 
" She takes ' Beulah ' by the hand and goes over 
the ground of unbelief with merciless fidelity; not 
a doubt is left unassailed; every dragon of specu- 
lation is unearthed, and over and again is fought 
the strong battle." Beulah Benton and Guy Hart 
well make a grim pair of lovers with discussions 
of " ontology," *' psychology," and " eclecticisms "; 
but they are strong, fine characters. Miss Evans 



26 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 

has no touch of anything impure or sensual In 
any of her writings. 

At the age of twenty-three, when " Beulah " 
was written, the author had studied deeply into 
metaphysics, her life and the habits of a recluse 
having given her the opportunity. Of her mother 
Miss Evans said: " She has been my Alma Mater, 
to whom I owe everything, and whom I reverence 
more than all else on earth." In her home at 
Mobile Mrs. Wilson fills her days with steady ap- 
plication and those unobtrusive, kindly acts which 
prove her to be a beautiful and noble woman. 

Her other novels are: "St. Elmo," " Vashtl," 
" Infelice," " At the Mercy of Tiberius," " Mi- 
caria " and " The Speckled Bird." 

After a silence of many years Miss Evans pro- 
duced her late work, " The Speckled Bird," which 
was looked for with great eagerness. It has been 
much criticised, both favorably and adversely. 

" Whatever may be said of Miss Evans, she Is 
a writer of great strength, and while her style Is 
somewhat florid, she never sacrifices her meaning 
by ambiguous words. She paints all her pictures 
in brilliant colorings, but they are the kind that 
only a true artist dare essay. She Is skilled with her 
palette of words, like the great artist that she Is, 
and If she paints a sunset, there is no doubt 
that it Is a realistic one In each Instance. That she 
uses the adjective, there Is no doubt, but that she 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS 27 

is Injudicious, no one can say who will analyze 
her motive. In other words, she is a most potent 
user of our very elastic language, and gets the 
best possible meaning out of it. Not a juggler 
of words in any sense, she commands her tongue 
to its fullest scope, and dares put colorings that 
weaker thinkers would refrain from readily. It is 
this very boldness of touch, stroke and tint that 
gives glow and beauty to her thought and mode 
of expression." 

ST. ELMO 

" He stood and measured the earth : and the everlasting 
mountains were scattered, the perpetual hills did bow." 

These words of the prophet of Shigionoth were sung 
by a sweet, happy, childish voice, and to a wild, anomalous 
tune, solemn as the Hebrew chant of Deborah, and fully 
as triumphant. 

A slender girl of twelve years' growth steadied a pall 
of water on her head, with both dimpled arms thrown up, 
In ancient classic Caryatides attitude, and, pausing a mo- 
ment beside the spring, stood fronting the great golden 
dawn, — watching for the first level ray of the coming sun, 
and chanting the prayer of Habakkuk. Behind her In 
silent grandeur towered the huge outline of Lookout 
Mountain, shrouded at summit In gray mist, while centre 
and base showed dense masses of foliage dim and purplish 
In the distance, a stern, cowled monk of the Cumberland 
brotherhood. Low hills clustered on either side, but im- 
mediately in front stretched a wooded plain, and across 
this the child looked at the flushed sky, rapidly brightening 



28 ' AUGUSTA /. EVANS 

into fiery and blinding radiance, until her wild song 
waked echoes among the far-off rocks. The holy hush 
of early morning had rested like a benediction upon the 
scene, as though nature had laid her broad finger over 
her great lips, and waited in reverent silence the advent 
of the sun. Morning among the mountains possessed 
witcheries and glories which filled the heart of the girl 
with adoration and called from her lips rude but exultant 
anthems of praise. The young face, lifted toward the 
cloudless east, might have served as a model for a pic- 
tured Syriac priestess, one of Baalbec's vestals ministering 
In the olden time in that wondrous and grand temple at 
Heliopolis. 

The large black eyes held a singular fascination in their 
mild sparkling depths, now full of tender loving light 
and childish gladness, and the flexible red lips curved in 
lines of orthodox Greek perfection, showing remarkable 
versatility of expression ; while the broad, full, polished 
forehead, with its prominent, swelling brows, could not 
fail to recall even to casual observers the calm, powerful 
face of Lorenzo de Medici, which if once looked on, fas- 
tens itself upon heart and brain, to be forgotten no more. 
Her hair, black, straight, waveless as an Indian's, hung 
around her shoulders, and glistened, as the water from the 
dripping bucket, through the wreath of purple morning 
glories and scarlet cypress, which she had twined about her 
head ere lifting the cedar pail to its resting place. She 
wore a short-sleeved dress of yellow-striped home-spun, 
which fell nearly to her ankles, and her little bare feet 
gleamed pearly white on the green grass and rank dewy 
creepers that clustered along the margin of the bubbling 
spring. Her complexion was unusually transparent, and 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS 29 

early exercise and mountain air had rouged her cheeks 
till they matched the brilliant hue of her scarlet crown. 

A few steps in advance of her stood a large, fierce yel- 
low dog, with black scowling face, and ears cut close to 
his head, a savage, repulsive creature, who looked as if 
he rejoiced in an opportunity of making good his name, 
" Grip." In the solemn beauty of that summer morning, 
the girl seemed to have forgotten the mission upon which 
she came, but, as she loitered, the sun flashed up, kindling 
diamond fringes on every dew-beaded chestnut leaf and 
oak bough, and silvering the misty mantle which envel- 
oped Lookout. A moment longer that pure-hearted Ten- 
nessee child stood watching the gorgeous spectacle, drinking 
draughts of joy, which mingled no drop of sin or selfish- 
ness in its crystal waves, for she had grown up alone with 
nature, — utterly ignorant of the roar and strife, the burn- 
ing hate, and cunning intrigue of the great world of men 
and women, where " like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed 
vipers, each struggles to get its head above the other." To 
her, earth seemed very lovely, life stretched before her 
like the sun's path in that clear sky, and, free from care 
and foreboding as the fair June day, she walked on pre- 
ceded by her dog — and the chant burst once more from 
her lips. " She stood and measured the earth ; and the 
everlasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual 

hills '" The sudden, almost simultaneous report of 

two pistol shots rang out sharply on the cool calm air, and 
startled the child so violently that she sprang forward and 
dropped the bucket. The sound of voices reached her 
from the thick wood bordering the path, and, without 
reflection, she followed the dog, who bounded off toward 
the point whence it issued. Upon the verge of the forest 



30 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 

she paused, and looking down a dewy glade where the 
rising sun darted its earliest arrowy rays, beheld a spectacle 
which burned itself upon her memory. A group of five 
gentlemen stood beneath the dripping chestnut and sweet 
gum arches; one leaned against the trunk of a tree, two 
were conversing in undertones, and two faced each other 
fifteen paces apart, with pistols in their hands. Ere she 
could comprehend the scene the brief conference ended, 
the seconds resumed their places to witness another fire, 
and like the peal of a trumpet echoed the words: " Fire! 
One — two — three ! " 

The flash and ringing report mingled with the com- 
mand, and one of the principals threw up his arm and 
fell. When with horror in her wide-strained eyes and 
pallor on her lips, the child staggered to the spot, and 
looked on the prostrate form, he was dead. The hazel 
eyes stared blankly at the sky, and the hue of life and ex- 
uberant health still glowed on the full cheek, but the 
ball had entered the heart, and the warm blood, bubbling 
from his breast, dripped on the glistening grass. The 
surgeon who knelt beside him took the pistol from his 
clenched fingers, and gently pressed the lids over his glaz- 
ing eyes. Not a word was uttered, but while the seconds 
sadly regarded the stiffening form, the surviving principal 
coolly drew a cigar, lighted it, and placed it between his 
lips. The child's eyes had wandered to the latter from the 
pool of blood, and now in a shuddering cry she broke the 
silence. 

"Murderer!" 

The party looked around instantly and for the first 
time perceived her standing there in their midst, with 
loathing and horror in the gaze she fixed on the perpe- 



AUGUSTA J. EVANS 31 

trator of the awful deed. In great surprise he drew back 
a step or two and asked gruffly : 

"Who are you? What business have you here? " 

" Oh! how dared you murder him? Do you think God 
will forgive you on the gallows? " 

He was a man probably twenty-seven years of age, 
singularly fair, handsome, and hardened in iniquity, but 
he cowered before the blanched and accusing face of the 
child, and ere a reply could be framed, his friend came 
close to him. 

'* Clinton, you had better be off. You have barely 
time to catch the Knoxville train, which leaves Chatta- 
nooga in half an hour. I would advise you to make a long 
stay down in New York, for there will be trouble when 
Dent's brother hears of this morning's work." 

" Aye! Take my word for that, and put the Atlantic 
between you and Dick Dent," added the surgeon, smiling 
grimly, as if the anticipation of retributive justice afforded 
him pleasure. 

" I will simply put this between us," replied the homi- 
cide, fitting his pistol to the palm of his hand, and as he 
did so a heavy antique diamond ring flashed on his little 
finger. 

Without even glancing toward the body of his antago- 
nist, Clinton scowled at the child, and, turning away, was 
soon out of sight. 

" Oh, sir! " will you let him get away? Will you let 
him go unpunished ? " 

He cannot be punished," answered the surgeon, look- 
ing at her with mingled curiosity and admiration. 

" I thought men were hung for murder." 

" Yes — but this is not murder." 



32 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 

" Not murder? He shot him dead! What is it? " 

" He killed him in a duel, which is considered quite 

right and altogether proper." 

"A duel?" She had never heard the word before. 

" To take a man's life is murder." 



THEODORE O'HARA 

1820 — 1867 

This soldier-poet was born In Danville, Ken- 
tucky, January 11, 1820. His father. Keen 
O'Hara, an Irish gentleman and scholar, came to 
America during the revolutionary troubles in Ire- 
land. " Though belonging to the Irish gentry, 
he had been an ardent rebel in the famous up- 
rising in 1798, which cost young Emmet his life. 
Eluding the vigilance of the British officers, Keen 
O'Hara was fortunate enough to escape to Amer- 
ica." He settled in Danville, Kentucky, where he 
taught in the academy at that place, and later he 
established a school in Jefferson County, where 
among his pupils were Zachary Taylor, afterwards 
President of the United States, and Colonel George 
Grogham, known in history as the " hero of San- 
dusky." 

Inheriting his father's patriotic temperament, 
Theodore O'Hara early gave evidence of an un- 
usually fine mentality, and all the enthusiasm and 
ardor of an Irish temperament. 

He was given the benefit of a thorough college 
education in the Catholic schools of Kentucky, 

33 



34 THEODORE O'HARA 

and soon became an accomplished scholar, espe- 
cially in ancient and modern languages. He was 
admitted to the bar in 1842, but the practice of 
law offered few attractions to his poetic mind, and 
he went into journalistic work as editor of " The 
Frankfort Yeoman," and later of '' The Louis- 
ville Times." 

From a letter of J. Stoddard Johnson, a life-long 
friend, we have the following facts of his brilliant 
career: "On the breaking out of the Mexican 
War Theodore O'Hara was appointed captain 
and assistant quartermaster of the volunteers. He 
was brevetted for gallant and meritorious conduct 
at the battle of Cherubusco, and honorably dis- 
charged October 15, 1848." 

O'Hara now resumed the editorship of " The 
Frankfort Yeoman." In 1850 he took part with 
Lopez in the first Cuban Expedition with the rank 
of colonel. At Cardenas, while making a success- 
ful charge on the Governor's palace, he was se- 
verely wounded, and was brought back to the 
United States. Fortunately he was not sufficiently 
recovered to return in the Second Expedition, and 
thus escaped the fate of Lopez, Crittenden, and 
others, who were captured and shot. 

Subsequently O'Hara entered the regular army 
and was made captain in the famous " Second 
Cavalry," with whose fortunes have been associ- 
ated such men as Robert E. Lee, George H. 



THEODORE O'HARA 35 

Thomas, Albert Sidney Johnston, Kirby Smith, 
and John B. Hood, each destined to achieve dis- 
tinction in the bloody conflict of the sixties. 

At the breaking out of the Civil War O'Hara 
was living in Mobile, where he had been connected 
editorially with " The Mobile Register," but he 
immediately enlisted in the Confederate Army, en- 
tering the Twelfth Alabama Infantry as lieu- 
tenant-colonel. A short time before the battle of 
Shiloh he was invited by General Albert Sidney 
Johnston to become a member of his personal staff, 
and resigning his regimental position, O'Hara 
accepted. At the battle of Shiloh he was near 
the side of Johnston when the latter was mor- 
tally wounded, and accompanied the General's 
remains to New Orleans. Colonel O'Hara then 
became a member of the staff of General John C. 
Breckinridge, as inspector-general, and at the 
battle of Murfreesboro, December 31, 1862, and 
for some time afterwards was acting chief-of- 
staff. In the early summer of 1863 he retired 
from active military service and made his home 
in Columbus, Georgia, where, at the close of the 
war, he engaged in the cotton business. In the 
spring of 1867 he was living on the plantation of 
a friend, Captain Grant, near Guerryton, Bullock 
County, Alabama, where he died June 6, 1867. 
In 1873, by resolution of the Legislature of Ken- 
tucky, Colonel O'Hara's remains were brought 



36 THEODORE O'HARA 

home to his native State and interred, after an 
address dehvered by General Wm. Preston, in the 
presence of a large assembly of citizens. His body 
rests in the State military department of the ceme- 
tery, 

" And kindred eyes and hearts watch by the hero's 
sepulcher." 

Colonel O'Hara was never married. He was 
a man of strikingly handsome person, and with 
a fine intellectual countenance. To superior clas- 
sical attainments he added the qualities of a bril- 
liant orator and poet. No collection of either 
his poems or orations having been made, his fame 
as an orator lives only in tradition, while as a 
poet, his merit now is attested by his widely quoted 
poem " The Bivouac of the Dead." In regard to 
the time of the production of this noble poem 
there exists much error. It is generally said to 
have been written on the occasion of the imposing 
public funeral given by the Commonwealth of 
Kentucky to her soldiers who had fallen in Mexico. 
This event occurred July 20, 1847, ^t which time 
Colonel O'Hara was in Mexico. The weight of 
authority tends to show that the poem was not 
written till 1850. It has been quoted everywhere 
over our land, and lines from It are to be found in 
a large number of the principal Federal ceme- 
teries. 



THEODORE O'HARA 37 

Another touching poem of this poet-soldier is 
" The Old Pioneer." A handsome marble monu- 
ment in the cemetery at Frankfort is simply in- 
scribed with his name and date of his death. Mr. 
George W. Ranch, in his little volume entitled 
'' The Bivouac of the Dead and Its Author," says 
that he hopes some day this inscription may be 
changed to read " Theodore O'Hara, Author of 
* The Bivouac of the Dead,' " for he has given to 
the world one of its most precious gems of mar- 
tial poetry. 

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo; 

No more on Life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 

On Fame's eternal camping-ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 

And Glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind ; 

No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 

No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms; 

No braying horn, nor screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 



38 THEODORE O'HARA 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed ; 

Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud — 

And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow. 

And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade. 

The bugle's stirring blast, 

The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 

The din and shout, are past; 

Nor War's wild note, nor Glory's peal. 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 

Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

. • • « • 

Full many a Norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain. 

And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its moldering slain. 

The raven's scream, or eagle's flight. 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 

Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 
Ye must not slumber there. 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
Along the heedless air. 



THEODORE O'HARA 39 

Your own proud land's heroic soil 
Shall be your fitter grave; 
She claims from War his richest spoil — 
The ashes of her brave. 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field; 

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield; 

The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulcher. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 
Dear as the blood ye gave! 
No impious footstep here shall tread 
The herbage of your grave; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 
While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell. 

When many a vanished year hath flown. 

The story how ye fell ; 

Nor wreck, nor change, nor Winter's blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom. 

Shall dim one ray of holy light 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 

— Courtesy of J . Stoddard Johnson. 



MRS. ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON (GRIP- 

FITH) 

1828— 1894 

Mrs. Joh.nson was born in Natchez, Missis- 
sippi, in 1828, her maiden name being Griffith. 
When she was nine years old her mother died, but 
she found in her maternal aunt, Mrs. Vertner, 
a second mother, from whom she received faith- 
ful love and fostering care. By adoption the 
name of Vertner became hers, and later in life 
she said, " I have never known the misery of being 
motherless, as she [Mrs. Vertner] fulfilled most 
tenderly and unceasingly a fond mother's duty 
toward me." 

Mary Forrest says the early childhood of Rosa 
Vertner was passed at Burlington, a beautiful 
country-seat near Port Gibson, Mississippi. Her 
fondness for this place amounted almost to a pas- 
sion. " Here," said Rosa, " I learned to think 
and feel," and here her poetical talent began to 
express itself. She prattled in rhyme long before 
she could write. The charms of " Burlington " 
and its refined influences, and the constant sym- 
pathy and instruction of her poet-father rapidly 

40 



ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON 41 

developed the mind and heart of this beautiful 
girl. 

For the sake of her education the family moved 
when she was ten years of age to Kentucky, and 
Rosa was placed in the noted seminary of Bishop 
Smith, a school located in Lexington. At the age 
of seventeen Miss Vertner married Claud M. 
Johnson, a manly gentleman of considerable for- 
tune. Her life was then spent in a delightful 
manner: in summer with her adopted mother in 
Lexington, and in winter at her husband's planta- 
tion in Louisiana. She became the mother of six 
children, two of whom died young. 

The poem " Angel Watchers " beautifully ex- 
presses the mother pain of these separations. Mrs. 
Johnson first became a contributor to " The Louis- 
ville Journal " under the name of " Rosa," and 
the greater number of her poems were published 
here, though she contributed also to the " Home 
Journal " and many other magazines. The first 
volume of her poems was published in 1857 in 
Boston. Of this collection the editor of " The 
Louisville Journal" said: " In the blooming field 
of modern poetry we really know not where to 
look for productions at once so full of merit and 
so free from defect." 

Mary Forrest says: '' Subordinate to the literary 
quality of her productions, but more striking to 
the superficial eye, is the marvelous wealth and 



42 ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON 

delicacy of her fancy. The fertility of her con- 
ception seems positively inexhaustible." 

In " The First Eclipse " and " The Frozen 
Ship " she essayed the higher types of thought 
and imagination, and here she met with great suc- 
cess. In " Women of the South " we find these 
words concerning Mrs. Johnson, who, after the 
death of her first husband, became Mrs. Jeffreys: 
" In many of the works of this writer we see 
glimpses of a substratum of passionate power, 
which has never been stirred. A deep fountain 
was troubled at the death of her children, but 
troubled by an angel, and her songs grew only 
more low and tender. ' Hasheesh Visions ' does 
not lack impassioned element, but it has the crazy 
play and prodigality of words evolved from the 
heights of the brain and not from the depths of 
feeling." 

Her best production in fiction is " Woodburn," 
which appeared in 1864. There is not the least 
effort in this book after what is called fine writing. 
The whole tale of love and hate, of joy and woe, 
is told with the simplicity and childlike earnestness 
which seem to characterize the nature of little 
" Amy Percy " herself, the youthful story-teller. 
It is a description of social Southern life before 
the war, and abounds in truthful pictures of the 
happy, easy, care-free days of that favored and 
prosperous time. The frank cordiality, the warm- 



ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON 43 

hearted hospitality, the gay rides and merry meet- 
ings of friends and neighbors, are all true delinea- 
tions of that happiest time among the dwellers 
in the " Land of the Mocking-bird and Mag- 
nolia." Under the name of Mrs. Rosa Vertner 
Jeffreys this writer was best known in the later 
years of her life. She spent some time with her 
adopted mother in New York City and died in 
1894, beloved and admired by all who knew her. 
" The Night Has Come " has been called one of 
her poetical productions. 

THE NIGHT HAS COME 

The night has come when I may sleep, 

To dream, perchance of thee — 
And where art thou? Where south winds sweep 

Along a southern sea. 
Thy home a glorious tropic isle 

On which the sun with pride 
Doth smile as might a sultan smile 

On his Circassian bride. 

And where the south wind gently stirs 

A chime of fragrant bells. 
While come the waves as worshipers. 

With rosary of shells 
The altars on the shore to wreathe, 

Where, in the twilight dim, 
Like nuns, the foam-veiled breakers breathe 

Their wild and gushing hymn. 



44 ROSA FERTNER JOHNSON 

The night has come, and I will glide 

O'er sleep's hushed waves the while, 
In dreams to wander by thy side 

Through that enchanting isle. 
For, in the dark, my fancy seems 

As full of witching spells 
As yon blue sky of starry beams 

Or ocean-depths of shells. 

Vet sometimes visions do becloud 

My soul with such strange fears, 
They wrap me like an icy shroud 

And leave my soul in tears. 
For once me thought thy hand did bind 

Upon my brow a wreath 
In which a viper was entwined 

That stung me — unto death. 

And once within a lotus cup, 

Which thou to me didst bring, 
A deadly vampire folded up 

Its cold and murky wing; 
And springing from that dewy nest. 

It drained life's azure rills. 
That wandered o'er my swelling breast. 

Like brooks through snow-clad hills. 

Yet seemed it sweeter thus to die 

There, in thy very sight. 
Than see thee 'neath that tropic sky, 

As in my dreams last night. 



ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON 45 

For lo, within a palmy grove, 

Unto an Eastern maid 
I heard thee whispering vows of love 

Beneath the feathery shade. 

And stately as the palm was she, 

Yet thrilled with thy wild words. 
As its green crown might shaken be 

By many bright-winged birds; 
And 'neath thy smile, in her dark eye, 

A rapturous light did spring. 
As in a lake soft shadows lie. 

Dropped from the rainbow's wing. 

• • • • • 

Some of her other works are " Poems by Rosa,'* 
and " The Crimson Hand and Marsh," a novel. 



JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 

1795— 1870 

The father of this noted writer was from the 
north of Ireland. He settled in Baltimore and 
became a successful merchant. He married Miss 
Nancy Pendleton of Martinsburg, Virginia, in 
1794, and the next year their son was born, John 
Pendleton Kennedy. Even in boyhood he began 
to show a strong tendency for literature, and at 
school, though he studied all the various branches 
taught, yet a miscellaneous kind of writing was 
continually pursued by this ambitious boy. 

In 1809 his father bought a cottage home in the 
country called " Shrub-Hill," from which home 
John Pendleton Kennedy rode daily to Baltimore 
College. Later he studied law and was admitted 
to the bar in 18 16. However, the practice of law 
was distasteful to him, although he had a great 
admiration for lawyers. Baltimore was a city of 
much culture, and the association with such men as 
Pinckney, Hoffman, Poe, Pierpont and Sparks kept 
alive his passion for literary work. He was a 
friend also of Washington Irving, and together, 
on horseback, they traveled over western New 
York. He was elected to the Maryland Legisla- 

46 



JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 47 

ture in 1820, and later, in 1838, to Congress. Dur- 
ing Mr. Fillmore's administration he was Secre- 
tary of the Navy, doing valuable service for the 
government. 

Mr. Kennedy married a daughter of Judge Ten- 
nant, of Baltimore, but she died soon after, and 
his second wife was a Miss Elizabeth Gray, with 
whom he lived for forty-one very happy years. His 
frequent visits to Virginia with his mother, which 
were continued sometimes with his wife, and often 
alone on horseback, gave him an intimate knowl- 
edge of the habits, life, hospitality, manners, plan- 
tations and romances of Virginia, the State 
endeared to him by many ties. 

When his story, " Swallow Barn," appeared, 
there had been few really faithful pictures of 
Southern life, and the book met with cordial re- 
ception both in the North and the South. Profes- 
sor Link says: " No historian can afford to neglect 
the pages of ' Swallow Barn.' " The demand for 
this book has been so continued that G. P. Putnam 
& Sons brought out a new edition in 1895. 

Kennedy traveled in Europe and there became 
acquainted with William Makepeace Thackeray, 
for whom it is said he wrote a chapter in '' Vanity 
Fair," the fourth chapter of the second volume. 

When in America he traveled much on horse- 
back, which gave him opportunity to meet 
many of the characters he afterward put in his 



48 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 

novels. He was the true and tried friend of Edgar 
Allan Poe, ever ready to help him and ever be- 
lieving in his genius. Kennedy's style of writing 
follows closely that of his friend Irving. 

His principal works are: "Swallow Barn,'* 
'' Horse-Shoe Robinson," " Rob of the Bowl," 
" Red Book," an anonymous collection of prose 
and verse; "Annals of Quodlibet," "Memoirs 
of William Wirt," addresses, and other prose 
writings. 

In " Swallow Barn " we find exquisite descrip- 
tions of country life In Virginia " as it existed," 
Kennedy writes, " in the first quarter of the pres- 
ent century, the mellow, bland, and sunny luxu- 
riance of the old-time society — its good fellowship, 
its hearty and constitutional companlonableness, 
the thriftless gayety of the people and that over- 
flowing hospitality which knew no ebb." 

Speaking of the country homes in Virginia he 
says: "You never know your friend so well or 
enjoy him so heartily In the city as you may in one 
of those large, bountiful mansions, whose horizon 
Is filled with green fields and woodland slopes and 
broad blue heavens." 

Frank Merrlweth he describes: "A landed 
proprietor, with a good house and a host of serv- 
ants. Is naturally a hospitable man. A guest Is 
one of his daily wants." 

The description of the dinner-table portrays to 



JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 49 

perfection the abundant supply that graced the 
hospitable board. 

The table was furnished with a profusion of the delica- 
cies afforded by the country; and, notwithstanding it was 
much more ample than the accommodation of the guests 
required, it seemed to be stored rather with a reference to 
its own dimensions than to the number or wants of those 
who were collected around it. At the head, immediately 
under the eye of our hostess, in the customary pride of 
place, was deposited a goodly ham of bacon, rich in its own 
perfections, as well as in the endemic honors that belong 
to it In the Old Dominion. According to a usage worthy 
of imitation. It was clothed in its own dark skin, which 
the imaginative mistress of the kitchen had embellished 
by carving Into some fanciful figures. The opposite end 
of the table smoked with a huge roasted saddle of mutton, 
which seemed, from its trim and spruce air, ready to gal- 
lop off the dish. Between these two extremes was scat- 
tered an enticing diversity of poultry, prepared with many 
savory adjuncts, and especially that tropical luxury, which 
yet so slowly finds its way northward, — fried chicken, — 
sworn brother to the ham, and old Virginia's standard 
dish. The intervening spaces displayed a profusion of the 
products of the garden ; nor were oysters and crabs want- 
ing where room allowed ; and, where nothing else could 
be deposited, as if scrupulous of showing a bare spot of 
the table-cloth, the bountiful forethought of Mistress 
Winkle had provided a choice selection of pickles of every 
color and kind. From the whole array of the board it 
was obvious that abundance and variety were deemed no 



50 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 

less essential to the entertainment than the excellence of 
the viands." 

The story of old Lucy and her son Abe in 
" Swallow Barn " Is one of exquisite pathos. 

Abe was the youngest son of old Lucy. He had noth- 
ing of the flat nose and broad hip of his tribe — but his face 
was moulded with the prevailing characteristics of the 
negroes of the West Indies. He had been trained to the 
work of a blacksmith. But a habit of associating with the 
most profligate menials belonging to the extensive commu- 
nity of Swallow Barn and the neighboring estates cor- 
rupted his character. Merriweth, the master, was strongly 
imbued with repugnance against disposing of any of his 
negroes, but finally Abe's transgressions became so numer- 
ous that to save him from a worse fate the master 
determined to ship him for a while on one of the sailing 
vessels that frequented the harbor. There never was a 
more exemplary domestic than the mother. Abe had al- 
ways lived in her cabin. Although she was continually 
tormented with his misdeeds and did not fail to reprove 
him with habitual harshness, still her heart yearned se- 
cretly toward him. 

It was very hard to convince the mind of a mother of 
the justice of the sentence that deprives her of her child. 
Lucy heard all of the arguments to justify the necessity 
of sending Abe abroad, assented to It all, bowed her head, 
as If entirely convinced — and thought it very hard. She 
was told that It was the only expedient to save him from 
prison. She admitted it, but it was a source of unuttera- 
ble anguish to her, which no kindness on the part of the 



JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 51 

family could mitigate, and old Lucy gave way to pas- 
sionate wailing of despair. 

This burst of feeling had its expected effect upon Lucy. 
She seemed to be suddenly relieved, and was able to ad- 
dress a few short words of parting to Abe; then taking 
from the plaits of her bosom a small leather purse con- 
taining a scant stock of silver, — the hoard of past years, — 
she put it into the unresisting hand of Abe. The boy 
looked at the faded bag for a moment, and gathering up 
something like a smile upon his face, he forced the money 
back upon his mother, himself replacing it in the bosom 
of her dress. " You don't think I am going to take your 
money with me ! " said he. " I never cared about the 
best silver my master ever had : no, nor for freedom 
neither. I thought I was always going to stay here on 
the plantation. I would rather have the handkerchief you 
wear around your neck than all the silver you ever 
owned." 

Lucy took the handkerchief from her shoulders, and 
put it in his hand. Abe drew it into a loose knot about 
his throat, then turned briskly round, shook hands with 
the by-standers, and, shouldering his chest, moved with 
the boatman at a rapid pace toward the beach. 

In a few moments afterwards he was seen standing up 
in the boat, as it shot out from beneath the bank, and 
waving his hand to the dusky group he had just left. 

Then Kennedy gives the account of the ship- 
wreck when all perished save one sailor, who told 
the story of Abe's daring and heroism In trying 
to save the crew and vessel. 



52 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 

I might stop to compare this act of an humble and un- 
known negro, upon the Chesapeake, with the many similar 
passages in the lives of heroes whose names have been 
preserved fresh in the verdure of history, and who have 
won their immortality upon less noble feats than this ; but 
History is a step-mother, and gives the bauble fame to her 
own children, with such favoritism as she lists, overlook- 
ing many a goodly portion of the family of her husband 
Time. Still, it was a gallant thing, and worthy of a 
better chronicler than I, to see this leader and his little 
band — the children of a despised stock — swayed by a noble 
emulation to relieve the distressed ; and, what the fashion 
of the world will deem a higher glory, impelled by that 
love of daring which the romancers call chivalry — throw- 
ing themselves upon the unruly waves of winter, and fly- 
ing, on the wing of the storm, into the profound, dark 
abyss of ocean, when all his terrors were gathering in 
their most hideous forms; when the spirit of ill shrieked 
in the blast, and thick night, dreary with unusual horrors, 
was falling close around them; when old mariners grew 
pale with the thought of the danger, and the wisest coun- 
selled the adventurers against the certain doom that hung 
upon their path: — I say, it was a gallant sight to see such 
heroism shining out in an humble slave of the Old 
Dominion ! 

Under the terrible grief for loss of her son, the mind 

of old Lucy gives way, and she continues to look for 

Abe, saying always to her master, ** I cannot give him up, 

Massa Frank," and she looked continually for him to 

return. 

• • • • • 

One dark and blustering night of winter, the third 



JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 53 

anniversary of that on which Abe had sailed upon his 
desperate voyage, — for Lucy had noted the date, although 
others had not — near midnight, the inhabitants of the 
Quarter were roused from their respective cabins by loud 
knockings in succession at their doors ; and when each was 
opened, there stood the decrepit figure of old Lucy, who 
was thus making a circuit to invite her neighbors, as she 
said, to her house. 

** He has come back! " said Lucy to each one, as they 
loosed their bolts; " he has come back! I always told you 
he would come back upon this very night ! Come and see 
him! Come and see him! Abe is waiting to see his 
friends to-night." 

Either awed by the superstitious feeling that a maniac 
inspires in the breasts of the ignorant, or incited by curi- 
osity, most of the old negroes followed Lucy to her cabin. 
As they approached it, the windows gleamed with a broad 
light, and it was with some strange sensations of terror 
that they assembled at her threshold, where she stood upon 
the step, with her hand upon the latch. Before she opened 
the door to admit her wondering guests, she applied her 
mouth 'to the key-hole, and said in an audible whisper, 
*' Abe, the people are all ready to see you, honey! Don't 
be frightened, — there's nobody will do you harm ! " 

Then, turning toward her companions, she said, bow- 
ing her head, — 

** Come in, good folks! There's plenty for you all. 
Come in and see how he is grown! " 

She now threw open the door, and, followed by the 
rest, entered the room. There was a small table set out, 
covered with a sheet; and upon it three or four candles 
were placed in bottles for candlesticks. All the chairs she 



54 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 

had were ranged around this table, and a bright fire blazed 
in the hearth. 

" Speak to them, Abe!" said the old woman, with a 
broad laugh. '' This is Uncle Jeff, and here is Dinah, and 
here is Ben," — and in this manner she ran over the names 
of all present ; then continued : 

*' Sit down, you negroes! Have you no manners? Sit 
down and eat as much as you choose; there is plenty in 
the house. Mammy Lucy knew Abe was coming; and 
see what a fine feast she has made for him ! " 

She now seated herself, and addressing an empty chair 
beside her, as if someone occupied it, lavished upon the 
imaginary Abe a thousand expressions of solicitude and 
kindness. At length she said : 

" The poor boy is tired, for he has not slept these many 
long nights. You must leave him now — he will go to 
bed. Get you gone! get you gone! you have all eaten 
enough ! " 

Dismayed and wrought upon by the unnatural aspect of 
the scene, the party of visitors quitted the cabin almost 
immediately upon the command, and the crazed old menial 
was left alone to indulge her sad communion with the 
vision of her fancy. 

Permission of G. P. Putnam ^ Sons. 



MADAME OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 

1810 — 1877 

George Walton, the grandfather of Madame 
Le Vert, was a native of Prince Edward County, 
Virginia, but removed at an early day to Georgia. 
He was a member of the first Congress convened 
at Philadelphia, was Governor of Georgia, and 
Judge of the Supreme Court. He was also one 
of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. 
Not long before the Revolution he married Miss 
Camber, daughter of an English nobleman, to 
whom the crown had given large possessions. Two 
children, a girl and boy, blessed this union. The 
son, George Walton, traveled much and held 
many honorable positions in Georgia and also in 
Florida. Octavia Walton, his daughter, was bom 
at Belle Vue, near Augusta, Georgia, in 18 10, but 
as her parents soon removed to Florida, her ear- 
liest memories are of its orange trees, its flowers, 
and sunshine, of which she speaks in her own beau- 
tiful language. " The orange and live oak trees, 
shading the broad veranda; the fragrant acacia, 
oleander, and cape jasmine trees which filled the 
parterre sloping along to the sea beach ; the merry 

55 



56 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 

races with my brother along the white sands, 
while the creamy waves broke at my feet, and the 
delicious breeze from the gulf played in my hair; 
my pet mocking-birds in the giant oak by my win- 
dow, whose songs called me each morning from 
dreamland." 

Amid the glories of the warm Southland the 
young girl absorbed the feelings, thoughts and 
poetical tastes which are ever present in all her 
writings. 

Before she was twelve years of age she could 
write and converse in three languages with facility. 
It was a common thing for her father to receive 
at his office letters in French and Spanish, which 
she would interpret with surprising ease. While 
Governor of Florida, her father located the seat 
of government and at her desire named it " Talla- 
hassee." 

A pleasing and never-to-be-forgotten pleasure 
of her life was her meeting with Lafayette, who 
had been the friend of her grandmother. He 
folded the child to his heart, and called her " A 
truly wonderful child." She had conversed with 
him, with wonderful correctness, in his own lan- 
guage. 

Octavia Walton was never placed at school 
away from home; both her mother and grand- 
mother instructed her, and they were assisted by 
private tutors. An old Scotchman, a classic scholar 



OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 57 

and linguist, lived for years in their home, and 
Octavia and her brother studied under him. 

After the family moved to Mobile, Octavia, 
in company with her mother and brother, made 
an extended tour over the United States, where 
she was everywhere crowned a reigning belle. She 
met Washington Irving and began a friendship 
which lasted during his life. He corresponded 
with her, watched her literary course, and received 
her joyfully at " Sunnyside." On the occasion 
of her last visit, when she was leaving, Irving 
said, tenderly: " I feel as if the sunshine was all 
going away with you, my child." Henry Clay, 
Calhoun, and Webster were all her personal 
friends. 

Growing up under such rare intellectual influ- 
ences, it is not surprising that Miss Walton de- 
veloped into a most charming young woman. In 
1836 she married Dr. Henry Le Vert of Mobile, 
a man of great moral worth and a noted physi- 
cian. His father had come to America with La- 
fayette as fleet surgeon under Rochambeau, and 
was present at the taking of Yorktown. Dr. Le 
Vert, the son of this noble ancestry, was in every 
way worthy to be the husband of the attractive 
woman he married, and in every way Madame Le 
Vert, as she was. now called, was the willing co- 
worker with the good doctor in all of his unknown 
charities and humane labors. 



58 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 

Great sorrow came to Madame Le Vert in the 
death of her idolized brother and in that of her 
two children. For several years prostrated In mind 
and body, she lived in great seclusion. Then, in 
1853, she accepted an invitation to visit the family 
of the Duke of Rutland, and thus began the jour- 
neys through which the world is indebted for her 
books, " Souvenirs of Travel." These books are 
made up largely of letters to her mother, and be- 
sides the instructive and truthful descriptions, have 
all the freshness, vivacity, imagery and genius of 
the writer's mind expressed in exquisite English, 
and likewise a simple-hearted, child-like " colour 
de Rose," which creates a work fascinating to 
read. " The Way over the Simplon," " The As- 
cent and Eruption of Vesuvius," '' Moonlight in 
Venice," '' The Golden and the Silver Illumina- 
tions," are some of the many beautiful and graphic 
descriptions. 

Lamertlne said to her after listening to her 
brilliant description of a tour In Spain: ''Ma- 
dame, you are a natural Improvlsatrlce." 

Her translation, printed In " The Mobile Regis- 
ter," of " The Pope and the Congress " was pro- 
nounced by French scholars to be a most admirable 
rendering. 

Among her literary works Madame *Le Vert 
found time to labor zealously In the cause of pre- 
serving Mount Vernon. She was one of the first 



OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 59 

to advocate the project and was Vice-Regent of 
the Association for Alabama. 

Her home on Government Street in Mobile was 
a plain, substantial mansion, combining taste, ele- 
gance, and comfort. She had an immense library 
and rare works of art. She had remarkable con- 
versational powers, and that kindness of heart 
which made her thoroughly democratic. 

Between Madame Le Vert and Fredrika 
Bremer there existed a pure and continued friend- 
ship. A gentleman friend paid her this greatest 
of all compliments: "I defy anybody to spend 
an hour In her company without being a wiser and 
a better man." 

Madame Le Vert died In 1877. Her books 
are practically out of print, but those who possess 
copies of them feel that they are treasures. From 
the second volume of " Souvenirs of Travel," pub- 
lished by Derby & Jackson, New York, in 1859, 
we take the following selections: 

In describing her visit to St. Peter's, Madame 
Le Vert says: 

Driving rapidly to the hotel, we quickly dined, and re- 
turned to St. Peter's just at twilight. In the choral chapel 
they were singing the Miserere. Seating ourselves by the 
open door, a perfect flood of melody swept over us, swell- 
ing and seeming to linger long beneath the mighty dome 
and around the lofty arches. When the music ceased, a 
procession of cardinals, bishops, and priests moved slowly 



6o OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 

up the aisle to the grand altar, which they washed with 
wine, chanting In a solemn manner during the time. The 
darkness was Intense, save where the monks held lamps In 
their hands. The crosses were all wrapped In black, the 
pictures veiled. At Intervals a wild and plaintive cry 
would break the monotony of the chant, and Increase the 
strange and awe-lnsplring mystery of the scene. 

• • • • • 

One by one the lamp-holders vanished, and the throng 
departed, leaving only a few kneeling figures before the 
great altar, who appeared earnestly and deeply absorbed In 
their devotions. 

It Is Impossible to describe the holy calm which fell 
upon my soul as I sat within that dim and silent church. 
The very air seemed filled with beautiful spirits, who were 
weaving around me a spell of enchantment, and bearing 
me far away from the present Into a glorious world of the 
future. I felt as though I had lost my own identity, when 
hurried voices approached me. " Where have you been ? 
Where have you hidden yourself? " were the eager words 
addressed to me; and thus returning to the actualities of 
life we left St. Peter's and drove to the Trinita del Pelli- 
grini to see the noble Roman ladies wash the feet of the 
pilgrims and wait upon them at the table. The hospital 
Is divided into two departments. They not only wash their 
feet, serve them with food at the table, but with their 
own jeweled hands put the female pilgrims carefully into 
comfortable beds, where they at least enjoy one night's 
luxurious repose. Although it strikes one as an ostenta- 
tion of charity, or, rather, a parade of the virtue for public 
admiration, still many miserable beings were made happy 



OCT A VI A WALTON LE VERT 6i 

by it, and cheered for a few hours of their weary pil- 
grimage. 

FAREWELL TO VENICE 

It was past ten o'clock. Still we lingered on the bal- 
cony, thinking, in truth, it was wronging such a night to 
sleep. At length we called Antonio, our family gondolier, 
and told him to bring out the gondola from its haven, 
where it lay beneath the shadow of the ducal palace. In a 
few moments it glided to the steps, the black cabin was 
removed, so there was no covering between us and the 
sky. We were soon floating along the broad laguna, lean- 
ing back upon the soft cushions and luxuriating in the 
matchless beauty of the scene. Three wonderful pictures 
have I seen in Italy, which will hang forever on the 
** walls of memory." One was the illumination of St. 
Peter's, another the Niagara-like cataract of fire pouring 
from the crater of Vesuvius, and the third is moonlight in 
Venice. There is a glory about the moonlight here never 
attending it elsewhere; the smooth sheets of water receive 
its beams as though they were immense mirrors, and thence 
reflecting them upward, fill the atmosphere with a light 
of such dazzling brightness we constantly exclaimed, 
"This cannot be night!" It seemed a mingling of the 
soft tints of the early morning with the tender radiance 
of the twilight. 

Along the piazza of San Marco were multitudes of 
lamps, their rays piercing the still waters as though they 
were arrows of light. Every object was softened and 
rounded by the moonbeams, and its shadow singularly dis- 
tinct in the water below. Thus there appeared two cities, 
one above and another below the Grand Canal, each with 



62 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 

its winged lion. From the open window of a palace 
came the sound of merry dancing music, while beneath 
another was a gondola with serenaders. We made the 
entire voyage through the streets of Venice, passing under 
the " Bridge of Sighs," which for a moment shut out 
the moonlight completely, then we glided by the palace of 
the Foscari, and did not wonder the sad Jacopo was will- 
ing to endure even torture that he might look upon it 
again ; we lingered for a while beneath the marble-cased 
arch of the Rialto, and saw the house of Shylock and the 
home of Othello — thus, " slowly gliding over," we passed 
all the landmarks of historic and poetic interest. " To- 
morrow we part with Italy," I murmured, as we went 
for the last time about the radiant and moon-lighted city, 
and a deep regret welled up from the fountain of my 
heart. One must be insensible to the glories of the past 
and to the charms of the present not to love Italy. 

Earth, sky and air possess here a beauty unknown to 
other climes. Every city has some treasure of painting, 
sculpture or science. Every river, vale and mountain has 
its poetic or historic legend. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

1830 — 1886 

This " Poet Laureate of the South," as he is 
called, was bom January ist, 1830, in Charles- 
ton, South Carolina. Upon the death of his 
father. Lieutenant P. H. Hayne, of the United 
States Navy, Paul, at an early age, was placed un- 
der the loving care of his uncle, Robert Young 
Hayne, who was at one time Governor of South 
Carolina, and a friend of Daniel Webster. 

The Hayne family was one of much culture 
and refinement, and before the Civil War pos- 
sessed all the comforts wealth could give, and 
so Paul enjoyed all the advantages accruing from 
such conditions. He was educated at the Univer- 
sity of South Carolina, from which he was grad- 
uated at the age of twenty-two. 

From his much-loved mother he inherited rare 
taste for literary study, and also a poetical turn 
of mind. These traits were early fostered by 
reading Shakespeare and other great writers. 

In 1853, from among a number of literary 
gentlemen who often gathered at the dinners 
given by William Gilmore Simms, young Hayne 

63 



64 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

was selected as editor of " Russell's Magazine," 
a literary enterprise fostered for some time by 
many brilliant writers. Hayne was afterwards 
connected with the " Charleston Literary Messen- 
ger," " The Southern Opinion," and several other 
journals. But " poetry was his destiny," and be- 
fore i860 he had published three volumes of 
verse. He was married to Miss Mary Middleton 
Michel of Charleston. It was the blessed fortune 
of this poet, as it was the fortune of Lanier and of 
Timrod, to find continual support and encourage- 
ment in his wife's appreciation. Margaret J. 
Preston says: "No poet was more blessed in a 
wife, who by self-renunciation, exquisite sympathy, 
positive material help, and bright hopefulness, 
made endurable the losses and trials that crowded 
into the life of Paul Hamilton Hayne." In many 
of his poems is this wife gratefully remembered, 
especially in " The Bonny Brown Hand." 

Oh, drearily, how drearily, the sombre eve comes down! 
And wearily, how wearily, the seaward breezes blow ! 
But place your little hand in mine — so dainty, yet so 

brown ! 
For household toil hath worn away its rosy tinted snow: 
But I fold it, wife, the nearer, 
And I feel, my love, 'tis dearer 
Than all dear things of earth, ; 

As I watch the pensive gloaming. 
And my wild thoughts cease from roaming, 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 65 

And bird-like furl their pinions close beside our peaceful 
hearth : 

Then rest your little hand in mine, while twilight shim- 
mers down, — 

That little hand, that fervent hand, that hand of bonny 
brown — 

That hand that holds an honest heart and rules a happy 
hearth. 

Oh, merrily, how merrily, our children's voices rise ! 
And cheerily, how cheerily, their tiny footsteps fall ! 
But, hand, you must not stir awhile, for there our nes- 
tling lies. 
Snug in the cradle at your side, the loveliest far of all ; 
And she looks so arch and airy, 
So softly pure a fairy, — 
She scarce seems bound to earth ; 
And her dimple mouth keeps smiling, 
As at some child fay's beguiling. 
Who flies from Ariel realms to light her slumbers on the 

hearth. 
Ha, little hand, you yearn to move, and smooth the bright 

locks down ! 
But, little hand, — but, trembling hand, — but, hand of 

bonny brown, 
Stay, stay with me! — she will not flee, our birdling on the 

hearth. 

Oh, flittingly, how flittingly, the parlor shadows thrill, 
As wittingly, half wittingly, they seem to pulse and pass! 
And solemn sounds are on the wind that sweeps the 
haunted hill, 



66 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

And murmurs of a ghostly breath from out the grave 

yard grass. 
Let me feel your glowing fingers / 

In a clasp that warms and lingers 
With the full, fond lover of earth, 
Till the joy of love's completeness 
In this flush of fireside sweetness, 
Shall brim our hearts with spirit-wine, outpoured beside 

the hearth. 
So steal your little hand in mine, while twilight falters 

down, — ' 
That little hand, that fervent hand, that hand of bonny 

brown, — 
The hand which points the path to heaven, yet makes a 

heaven of earth. 

Life did not always run In pleasant lines for 
Paul Hamilton Hayne. During the Civil War 
his beautiful home In Charleston, his library and 
nearly all the heirlooms of his family were de- 
stroyed when that city was bombarded. 

Mrs. Preston says: "Even the few valuables, 
such as old silver, which he rescued from the 
flames and had placed In a bank In Columbus for 
safekeeping, were swept away In the famous 
' March to the Sea,' and nothing was left the 
homeless, ruined man, after the war, but exile 
among the ' Pine Barrens ' of Georgia. There he 
established himself, In utter seclusion. In a veri- 
table cottage, or rather shanty, designated at first 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 67 

as ' Hayne's Roost,' behind whose screen of vines, 
among peaches and melons, and strawberries of 
his own raising, he fought the fight of life with 
uncomplaining bravery, and persisted in being 
happy." 

Maurice Thompson says: "The poet, Hayne, 
secured eighteen acres of poor pine land a few 
miles from Augusta, Georgia. There he built of 
upright boards, a story and a half cottage, rough, 
poorly jointed and roofed with clapboards. It 
was just such a house as one sees occupied by 
trackmen's families along the railroad. Here, at 
' Copse Hill,' as this home was afterwards called, 
upon a desk fashioned out of a rude bench left 
by the carpenters, Hayne wrote all his most nota- 
ble poems. He never gave up his love for poesy 
and song, and fought poverty alone with his facile 
pen. . . . Hayne is, perhaps, the only poet 
in America who ever dared to depend solely upon 
poetry for his income, and no right-minded man 
can go to that lonely cottage on the poor brush- 
covered hill in Georgia and fail to feel how much 
courage It required to live there as Hayne lived." 

Paul Hamilton Hayne loved the forest tree, 
especially the Southern pine, which he has Immor- 
talized In verse. " He made the melancholy 
moanlngs of the Georgia pine sob through his 
poems," as, for example, " The Voice of the 
Pines," " Aspect of the Pine," " The Dryad of the 



68 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

Pines," and " In the Pine Barrens." '' Under the 
Pine " was written about a pine tree at whose base 
Henry Timrod, the South Carolina poet, sat and 
rested often during the last visit he made to 
Hayne, a short time before Timrod's death. The 
two poets had been schoolmates in youth, and life- 
long friends, and each had generously appreciated 
the other's poetical genius. One of the finest bio- 
graphical sketches written is the one Hayne wrote 
for the published edition of Timrod's poems. 

When Hayne was editor of " Russell's Maga- 
zine," one of its staunch supporters and welcome 
contributors was Henry Timrod. In loving mem- 
ory of this friend, Hayne wrote the beautiful 
verses " Under the Pine." 

O Tree! hast thou no memory at thy core 

Of one who comes no more? 

No yearning memory of those scenes that were 

So richly calm and fair, 

When the last rays of sunset shimmering down, 

Flashed like a royal crown ? 

O Tree ! against thy mighty trunk he laid 

His weary head ; thy shade 

Stole o'er him like the first cool spell of sleep. 

Professor Link says of Hayne : " If Bryant 
sometimes served at the altar of Nature, Hayne 
was her high priest, who ever dwelt amid her 
glories. Bryant was the pioneer of New Eng- 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 69 

land poets. He was the leader of an association 
of wits such as Dana, Halleck and others. Even 
Longfellow followed him at first. So Paul Ham- 
ilton Hayne was long the literary high priest of 
the South. Lanier, Timrod and others came 
about him for guidance and encouragement." 

Again Professor Link writes: "With little 
market for his wares up North, and with the South 
too poor to buy, and with friends urging him to 
turn his efforts to something else, Hayne held to 
his first love, poesy, with the devotion of a Milton 
dictating ' Paradise Lost ' ; few men in America 
have been so completely and fully a poet as 
Hayne. Longfellow was for a time professor in 
a college, Bryant was a newspaper man, and 
others, temporarily at least, have trained Pegasus 
along the paths of different professions. Except- 
ing a few prose sketches, almost poetry, and the 
biography of Timrod, nothing baser than fine- 
beaten gold of poesy came from his work shop." 

William Hayne, son of the poet, has inherited 
much of the father's genius. Between father and 
son was always a sweet companionship, and in 
the exquisite poem, " Will and I," Hayne tells 
how like two boys together they filled their souls 
with love for Nature. 

We roam the hills together, 
In the golden summer weather, 
Will and I ; 



70 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

And the glowing sunbeams bless us, 
And the winds of heaven caress us, 
As we wander hand in hand 
Through the blissful summer land. 
Will and I. 

Where the tinkling brooklet passes 
Through the heart of dewy grasses, 

Will and I 
Have heard the mock-bird singing. 
And the field-lark seen upspringing 
In his happy flight afar, 
Like a tiny winged star. 

Will and I. 

Amid cool forest closes 

We have plucked the wild-wood roses, 

Will and I, 
And have twined, with tender duty. 
Sweet wreaths to crown the beauty 
Of the purest brows that shine 
With a mother-love divine. 

Will and I. 

Ah! thus we roam together 
Through the golden summer weather. 

Will and I ; 
While the glowing sunbeams bless us, 
And the winds of heaven caress us — 
As we wander hand in hand 
O'er the blissful summer land, 

Will and I. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 71 

Mrs. Preston says of Hayne: "He had the 
ladvantage of quite a distinguished appearance, 
was shghtly built, and of medium height, with a 
lithe, graceful figure, a fine, oval face, with starry, 
magnificent eyes that glowed with responsive sym- 
pathy. He had abundant dark hair thrown back 
from a high forehead, and his manner was urbane 
and courteous to a high degree." 

The poet had never, even in younger days, been 
strong physically, and gradually, as he toiled at 
Copse Hill, he became fully aware that the end 
was drawing near. Like the swan in her dying 
song, some of Hayne's most beautiful verses were 
his late ones, when he felt the hand of Death close 
by, and even to the end love for Nature throbbed 
in every line. 

I pray you when the shadow of death comes down, 

Oh ! lay me close to Nature's pulses deep, 

Whether her breast with autumn's tints be brown. 

Or bright with summer, or hale winter's crown 

Press on her brows In sleep ; 

Lo, nigh the dawn of some new marvelous birth, 

I'd look to heaven, still clasped in arms of earth. 

Of death Hayne could say in his last poem: 

But I, earth's madness above, 
In a kingdom of stormless breath — 
I gaze on the glory of love 
In the unveiled face of Death. 



72 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

Hayne passed away early In July, 1886, hon- 
ored and beloved for the nobility and the purity 
of his character, as well as for his splendid genius. 
For a while his wife and son Will " kept vigil at 
Copse Hill," then the poet's wife joined her be- 
loved husband. 

Among the published works of Hayne are 
" Sonnets," " Avolio," '' Lyrics," " Mountain 
Lovers," " Life of Robert T. Hayne," also of 
Hugh Swinton Legare, and Henry TImrod. 

THE VOICE IN THE PINES 

The morn is softly beautiful and still, 
Its light fair clouds in pencilled gold and gray 
Pause motionless above the pine-grown hill, 
Where the pines, tranced as by a wizard's will, 
Uprise as mute and motionless as they! 

Yea ! mute and moveless ; not one flickering spray 
Flashed Into sunlight, not a gaunt bough stirred ; 
Yet, If wooed hence beneath those pines to stray, 
We catch a faint, thin murmur far away, 
A bodiless voice, by grosser ears unheard. 

What voice Is this? what low and solemn tone, 

Which, though all wings of all the winds seem furled, 

Nor even the zephyr's fairy flute Is blown, 

Makes thus forever Its mysterious moan 

From out the whispering pine-tops' shadowy world ? 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 73 

Ah! can It be the antique tales are true? 
Doth some lone Dryad haunt the breezeless air, 
Fronting yon bright Immitigable blue, 
And wildly breathing all her wild soul through 
That strange unearthly music of despair? 

Or can It be that ages since, storm-tossed. 

And driven far Inland from the roaring lea, 

Some baffled ocean spirit, worn and lost, 

Here, through dry summer's dearth and winter's frost. 

Yearns for the sharp, sweet kisses of the sea? 

Whate'er the spell, I hearken and am dumb, 
Dream-touched, and musing In the tranquil morn ; 
All woodland sounds — the pheasant's gusty drum, 
The mock-bird's fugue, the droning insects hum — 
Scarce heard for that strange sorrowful voice forlorn ! 

Beneath the drowsed sense, from deep to deep 
Of spiritual life Its mournful minor flows. 
Streamlike, with pensive tide, whose currents keep 
Low murmuring 'twixt the bounds of grief and sleep, 
Yet locked for aye, from sleep's divine repose. 

By permission of Lothrop Pub. Co.j Boston. 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 
1806 — 1870 

The early life of this writer was handicapped 
by the loss of his mother, and he was reared and 
cared for by his grandmother. He was born In 
Charleston, South Carolina, and at eight years of 
age began writing verses, which his practical 
grandmother committed to the flames. Her de- 
sire was that he should study medicine, and, as 
soon as he was old enough, the boy was placed as 
clerk in a drug-store. But he detested the idea of 
medicine, and even the smell of drugs was odious 
to him. In his heart he longed for study, and he 
said: " I had rather make an absolute failure in 
literature than a success in something else.'* 
Nevertheless, obedient to his grandmother's 
wishes, he remained as clerk in the drug-store, 
finally gaining her consent to study law, in which 
he was much hindered by his lack of education. 
However, he read good literature, pursued the 
study of law, and while still a clerk wrote poetry. 
Rich stores of learning were amassed In passing 
years, yet SImms always regretted that he had not. 
In youth, been able to receive the culture and polish 

74 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 75 

which the study of Latin and Green is believed 
to give the mind. 

For over forty years this writer devoted himself 
exclusively to literature. He labored assiduously 
and threw off from year to year, sometimes from 
month to month, his rapid series of fiction, now 
dealing with the rugged, original and aboriginal 
character of early American life; now depicting 
the heroic achievements of the knights of elder 
Spain and the crafty Saracen; now amid the tropic 
bloom of Florida; now in the abandon of South- 
western Hfe; now on the Dark and Bloody Ground, 
covering the whole range of Southern and South- 
western life. He was, however, most at home in 
the Revolutionary period when war, and craft, and 
treachery, and love and death ruled the hour; or 
in the older and pre-Revolutionary period, when 
the stalwart and sturdy Indian yet struggled with 
bloody hand for his erstwhile dominions, and yet 
hoped to wrest his lands from the pale-face. 

Before i860 this voluminous writer had pub- 
lished eighteen volumes of verse; he also wrote 
more than sixty other bound volumes of biog- 
raphy, romance, and history. 

As an historian and critic he excels. Edgar 
Allan Poe says of him: "He has more vigor, 
more imagination, more movement, and more gen- 
eral capacity than all other novelists except 
Cooper." 



76 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

Professor James Wood Davidson, a later critic, 
writing in 1869 declares: "In the wielding of 
events, in that sacrificing of character to situation 
he stands unsurpassed." He further says: "In 
his day and time some critics declared Simms' 
novels too full of realism; yet to-day people ad- 
mire without protest the rough realism that satu- 
rates the ' Barrack Room Ballads ' of Kipling." 
Ten of his novels have received German transla- 
tion, and his life of Francis Marion is as attractive 
as fiction; also the lives of John Smith, Chevalier 
Bayard and General Greene. Simms did for South 
Carolina what Sir Walter Scott did for his coun- 
try and Fenimore Cooper did for New England. 
His novels are almost entirely Southern, and 
Southern life has been faithfully reproduced. He 
owned a fine plantation near Midway, South Caro- 
lina, called " Woodlands." A bronze bust of him 
was unveiled at Pine Garden, Charleston, in 1879, 
and his memory is cherished tenderly in his birth- 
place. 

William Gilmore Simms had little love for the 
profession of law; his heart was in literature. 
When he abandoned his practice, he began the 
editorship of " The Tablet, or Southern Monthly 
Literary Gazette," a sixty-four-page magazine. 
It proved to be an unprofitable enterprise and ran 
only about a year. He then undertook the " City 
Gazette." He opposed with all his personal cour- 
age and mental powers the nullification movement. 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 77 

The death of his first wife, who was a Miss 
Giles, of Charleston, the burning of his house, 
the failure of his literary ventures, the death of 
his father and grandmother, all came with crush- 
ing force, and a weaker man would have been 
utterly disheartened; but William Gilmore Simms 
had the true every-day courage of a soldier and 
nothing overcame it. Later he was happily mar- 
ried to Miss Chavilette Roach, the daughter of 
a well-to-do planter, and one of his earliest 
novels, " Guy Rivers," passed through several 
editions and was reprinted in London. With 
great rapidity he now published volume after vol- 
ume of fiction, among them being " The Par- 
tisan," '' The Yemassee," " MelHchampe," " Bor- 
der Beagles," " Katharine Walton," and " The 
Scout," which were much admired and read. It 
is said, by those who wish to criticise adversely, 
that Simms is quite forgotten and his books are 
now unread. Professor Trent says: " One might 
perhaps say the same of Sir Walter Scott's novels, 
and it is certain that Cooper holds little of the 
kingdom in which he once reigned supreme. Tales 
of adventure with historical basis have given way, 
for the time, to novels of passion." So rapidly 
did Simms cover the romance, the history, the tra- 
ditions of the South with his fiction that " about 
fifty volumes," says Professor Trent, '' would 
hardly contain all he wrote, and while much of 
this work must have been done hurriedly, the 



78 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

South cannot afford to be indifferent to the great 
value of his books, and his name will always stand 
high on the list of pioneer American writers." 

The plantation home of this writer, " Wood- 
lands," was noted for its hospitality and many 
distinguished guests were entertained there. Scott 
wrote of and immortalized the heather and Whit- 
tier the native scenery of New England; so Simms 
loved his home and made beautiful its swamps and 
forests. 

Paul Hamilton Hayne says : " Simms was a 
typical Southerner of the ante-bellum period." 
The first time he saw Simms was in 1847, i^ 
Charleston, at a lecture, when Simms was called 
out by the audience for a talk. " I had," says 
Hayne, " already read some of his novels and I 
had long desired to see the author. He now came 
forward, a man in the prime of life, tall, vigorous 
and symmetrically formed. Under strangely mo- 
bile eyebrows flashed a pair of bluish-gray eyes, 
keen and bright as steel. His mouth, slightly 
prominent, especially in the upper lip, was a won- 
derfully firm one; the massive jaw and chin might 
have been moulded out of iron." 

Simms was an ardent Secessionist, and at the 
close of the war he found himself, like all Southern 
men, ruined financially. The death of his beloved 
wife in 1863 left him prostrated with grief; his 
fine beard was gray and his noble forehead marked 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 79 

with care and sorrow. He died, beloved by his 
children and his large circle of acquaintances, June 
II, 1870. He died as he had lived, a noble Chris- 
tian man, one of the band of Southern authors 
the South must ever admire and whose memory 
must be perpetuated from generation to genera- 
tion by those who truly love their native land. 
With much justice, Simms has been called the 
" Cooper of the South." 

The following list comprises most of his pub- 
lished works: 

'' Martin," " Faber," " Book of My Lady," 
''Guy Rivers," "The Yemassee," "Partisan," 
" Mellichampe," "Richard Hurdis," " Palayo," 
" Carl Werner and other Tales," " Border 
Beagles," " Confession, or the Blind Heart," 
" Beauchampe (sequel to Charlemont) ," "Helen 
Halsey," " Castle Dismal," " Count Julian," 
"Wigwam and Cabin," "Katharine Walton," 
" Golden Christmas," " Foragers," " Maroon, and 
other Tales," " Utah," " Woodcraft," " Marie de 
Berniere," " Father Abbott," " Scout " (first called 
" Kinsman "), " Charlemont," " Cassique of Kia- 
wah," and " Vasconselas (tale of De Soto)." 



POEMS (2 volumes) 

"Atalantis," " Grouped Thoughts and Scattered 
Fancies," " Lays of the Palmetto," " Southern 



8o WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

Passages and Pictures," " Areytos," " Songs and 
Ballads of the South." 

DRAMAS 

" Norman Maurice," " Michael Bonham, or 
Fall of the Alamo." 



BIOGRAPHY AND HISTORY, ETC. 

'' Life of General Francis Marion," " Life of 
Captain John Smith," " Life of Chevalier Bay- 
ard," " Geography of South Carolina," " Reviews 
in Periodicals" (2 Vols.), "Life of General 
Nathanael Greene," " History of South Carolina," 
" South Carolina in the Revolution," " War 
Poetry of the South," and " Seven Dramas of 
Shakespeare." 

The following extract has been taken from 
" The Yemassee," a story of the South Carolina 
Indians: 

The district of Beaufort, lying along the Atlantic coast 
in the State of South Carolina, is especially commended 
to the regards of the antiquarian as the region first dis- 
tinguished in the history of the United States by an 
European settlement. (We are speaking now of au- 
thentic history only. We are not ignorant of the claim 
on behalf of the Northmen to discovery along the very 
same region fully five hundred years before this period — 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 8i 

an assertion which brings us back to tradition of Madoc 
and his Welshmen ; the report of the Northmen adding 
further, that the language spoken was cognate with that 
of the Irish, with which they were familiar. For this 
curious history see the recently published ** Antiquities 
American," under the editorship of Professor Raf of 
Copenhagen.) 

Here a colony of French Huguenots was established in 
1562 under the auspices of the celebrated Gaspard de 
Cologni, Admiral of France, who in the reign of Charles 
IX. conceived the necessity of such a settlement, with 
the hope of securing a sanctuary for French Protestants, 
when they should be compelled, as he foresaw they soon 
would, by the anti-religious persecutions of the time, to 
fly from their native into foreign regions. This settle- 
ment, however, proved unsuccessful; and the events 
which history records of the subsequent effort of the 
French to establish colonies in the same neighborhood, 
while of unquestionable authority, have all the charm 
of the most delightful romance. 

It was not till an hundred years after, that the same 
spot was temporarily settled by the English under Sayle, 
who became the first governor, as he was the first perma- 
nent founder, of the settlement. The situation was ex- 
posed, however, to the incursions of the Spaniards, who, 
in the meantime, had possessed themselves of Florida, 
and for a long time after continued to harass and prevent 
colonization in this quarter. But perseverance at length 
triumphed over all these difficulties, and though Sayle, for 
further security, in the infancy of this settlement, had 
removed to the banks of the Ashley, other adventurers, 
little by little, contrived to occupy the ground he had 



82 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

left, and in the year seventeen hundred, the birth of a 
white native child is recorded. 

From the earliest period of our acquaintance w^ith the 
country of which we speak, it was in the possession of 
a powerful and gallant race, and their tributary tribes, 
known by the general name of Yemassees. Not so numer- 
ous, perhaps as many of the neighboring nations, they 
nevertheless commanded the respectful consideration of 
all. In valor they made up for any deficiencies of number, 
and proved themselves not only sufficiently strong to hold 
out defiance to invasion, but were always ready to an- 
ticipate assault. Their promptness and valor in the field 
furnished their best securities against attack, while their 
forward courage, elastic temper, and excellent skill in the 
rude condition of their warfare, enabled them to subject 
to their dominion most of the tribes around them, many 
of which were equally numerous with their own. Like 
the Romans, in this way they strengthened their own 
powers by a wise incorporation of the conquered with the 
conquerors; and under the several names of Huspahs, 
Coosaws, Comhahees, Stowoces, and Sewees, the greater 
strength of the Yemassees contrived to command so many 
dependents, prompted by their movements, and almost en- 
tirely under their dictation. Thus strengthened, the re- 
cognition of their power extended into the remote in- 
terior, and they formed one of the twenty-eight aboriginal 
nations among which, at its first settlement by the English, 
the province of Carolina was divided. 

A feeble colony of adventurers from a distant world 
had taken up its abode alongside of them. The weak- 
nesses of the intruder were, at first, his only but sufficient 
protection with the unsophisticated savage. The white 



A 



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 83 

man had his lands assigned him, and he trenched his fur- 
rows to receive the grain on the banks of Indian waters. 
The wild man looked on the humiliating labor, wondering 
as he did so, but without fear and never dreaming for 
a moment of his own approaching subjection. Meanwhile 
the adventurers grew daily more numerous, for their 
friends and relatives soon followed them across the ocean. 
They, too, had lands assigned them in turn by the im-^ 
provident savage, until, at length, we behold the log 
house of the white man, rising up amid the thinned clump 
of woodland foliage, within hailing distance of the squat, 
clay hovel of the savage. 

The Yemassees were politic and brave ... They 
looked with a feeling of aversion which they yet strove to 
conceal upon the approach of the white man on every side. 
The thick groves disappeared, the clear skies grew turbid 
with the dense smokes rolling up in the solid masses from 
the burning herbage. 

Hamlets grew into existence, as it were, by magic under 
their own very eyes, and in sight of their own town, for 
the shelter of a different people, and at length, a common 
sentiment, not even yet embodied perhaps by its open ex- 
pression, even among themselves, prompted the Yemassees 
in a desire to arrest the progress of a race with which they 
could never hope to acquire any real or lasting affinity. 
Permission M. A. Donahue ^ Chicago. 



JAMES BARRON HOPE 

1829— 1887 

James Barron Hope has been called the poet 
laureate of Virginia. He was born at the resi- 
dence of his grandfather, near Norfolk. His 
father, Wilton Hope, of Bethel, Elizabeth City 
County, was a handsome, gifted man, a landed 
proprietor, whose broad acres bordered on the 
waters of the Hampton River. The poet's life- 
long devotion to his native State came from the 
maternal side, from the Barrons, those " Virginia 
Vikings," as they were called. Jane Barron, his 
mother, was daughter of Commodore Barron, who 
commanded the Gosport Navy- Yard at the time 
of the birth of his son James. James Barron 
Hope gained his early education at Germantown. 
Later he became a student of Colonel Cary, in the 
noted Hampton Academy, and here began a 
friendship between the distinguished educator and 
young Hope, a friendship which lasted long in 
life. 

In 1847 h^ was graduated from William and 
Mary College, then becoming secretary to his 
uncle. Captain Samuel Barron, and in 1853 ^^ 

84 



JAMES BARRON HOPE 85 

made a cruise to the West Indies. His beautiful 
poem " Cuba," sent at this time to his mother for 
criticism, now seems almost a prophecy. 

In 1856 Hope was elected attorney for old 
Hampton, then the center of a charming and cul- 
tivated society. Here he was honored as a bard, 
for, under the name of " Henry Ellen," he had 
contributed to various Southern publications, and 
his poems in the " Southern Literary Messenger " 
had attracted much gratifying attention. His 
friendship for John Reuben Thompson, then 
editor of this magazine, lasted and deepened as 
the years rolled by. 

In 1857 J. B. Lippincott brought out " Leoni 
di Monota and Other Poems." The volume was 
cordially received and much praise was given to 
''The Charge at Balaklava," which G. P. R. 
James and other critics have declared equal to 
Tennyson's " Charge of the Light Brigade." 

Upon the 13th of May, 1857, James Barron 
Hope was chosen the poet for the 250th anniver- 
sary of the English settlement of Jamestown. His 
poem for this occasion is full of grandeur and 
imagery. 

Here the red Canute on this spot, sat down, 
His splendid forehead stormy with a frown, 
To quell, with the wild lightning of his glance 
The swift encroachment of the wave's advance ; 



86 JAMES BARRON HOPE 

To meet and check the ruthless tide which rose, 

Crest after crest of energetic foes. 

While high and strong poured on each cruel wave, 

Until they left his royalty in a grave; 

But o'er this wild tumultuous deluge glows 

A vision fair as Heaven to saint e'er shows; 

A dove of mercy o'er the billows dark 

Fluttered awhile, then fled within God's ark. 

Had I the power, I'd reverently describe 

That peerless maid — the " pearl of all her tribe " ; 

As evening fair, when coming night and day 

Contend together which shall wield its sway; 

But, here abashed, my paltry fancy stays ; 

For her, too humble its most stately lays 

A shade of twilight's softest, sweetest gloom — 

The dusk of morning — found a splendid tomb 

In England's glare; so strange, so vast, so bright 

The dusk of morning burst in splendid light. 

Which falleth through the Past's cathedral aisles, 

Till sculptured Mercy like a seraph smiles. 

Sad is the story of that maiden's race, 

Long driven from each legendary place 

All their expansive hunting-grounds are now 

Torn by the iron of Saxon's plow. 

Which turns up skulls and arrow-heads, and bones — 

Their places nameless and unmarked by stones. 

At the anniversary of the " Battle of the 
Crater " Hope recited his metrical address " Ma- 
hone's Brigade," beginning: 



JAMES BARRON HOPE 87 

Your arms are stacked, your splendid colors furled, 
Your drums are still, aside your trumpets laid, 
But your dumb muskets once spoke to the world — 
And the world listened to Mahone's Brigade. 

Like waving plume upon Bellona's crest. 
Or comet in red majesty arrayed, 
Or Persia's flame transported to the West, 
Shall shine the glory of Mahone's Brigade. 

Not once, in all those years so dark and grim, 

Your columns from the path of duty strayed ; 

No craven act made your escutcheon dim — 

'Twas burnished with your bloody Mahone's Brigade. 

In 1857 Hope married Miss Annie Beverly 
Whiting of Hampton, a woman of lovely person, 
beautiful character, and great strength of pur- 
pose. 

In 1 88 1 Congress chose him as poet for the 
Yorktown Centennial, and this address, " Arms 
and the Man," with other sonnets, was published 
the next year. 

Again Hope was called upon to deliver a poem 
at the laying of the cornerstone of the monument 
erected In Richmond to General Robert E. Lee. 
The cornerstone was laid In October, 1887, but 
the poet's voice had been stilled forever, and the 
poem was read by William Gordon McCabe. 
This poem, " Memoriae Sacrum," has been pro- 
nounced by many to be Hope's masterpiece. 



88 JAMES BARRON HOPE 

In his " Washington Memorial Ode," written 
for the unveiling of Crawford's statue of Wash- 
ington, occur the following fine lines: 

O proud old Commonwealth! thy sacred name 
Makes frequent music on the life of Fame! 
And as the Nation, in its onward march, 
Thunders beneath the Union's mighty arch, 
Thine the bold front which every patriot sees 
The stateliest figure on its massive frieze. 
O proud old State! well may thy form be grand, 
'Twas thine to give a Saviour to the land. 

Besides poetry James Barron Hope published 
"Little Stories for Little People"; a novel, 
"Madelon"; many masterly addresses; "Vir- 
ginia, Her Past, Present and Future," and " The 
Press and the Printer's Devil." 

During the late years of his life he suffered 
from illness, but none save those nearest to him 
knew of it. He was among the first to join the 
Confederate Army and came out of the war with 
broken health and ruined fortune. 

Hope was a little under six feet in height, 
slender, graceful and finely proportioned, with 
hands and feet of distinctive beauty. In his own 
home he was always at his best, for he touched 
with poetry the daily prose of living. A hand- 
some monument, fashioned from the stones of 
the State he loved so well, has been erected to his 



JAMES BARRON HOPE 89 

memory In Elmwood Cemetery, Norfolk, inscribed 
to the " Poet, Patriot, Scholar, Journalist, and 
Kingly Virginia Gentleman." 

BALAKLAVA * 

Spurring onward, Captain Nolan! 

Spurring furiously is seen — 
And although the road meanders — • 

His no heavy steed of Flanders, 
But one fit for the commanders 

Of her majesty the Queen. 

Nolan halted where the squadrons 

Stood impatient of delay, 
Out he drew his brief dispatches. 

Which their leader quickly snatches. 
At a glance their meaning catches — 

They are ordered to the fray! 

All that morning they had waited, 

As their frowning faces showed ; 
Horses stamping, riders fretting. 

And their teeth together setting; 
Not a single sword-blade wetting 

As the battle ebbed and flowed. 

Now the fevered spell is broken. 
Every man feels twice as large. 
Every heart is fiercely leaping, 

From copy in possession of Capt. M. B. Davis, of Waco. 
Printed in a Virginia paper in 1861. 



go JAMES BARRON HOPE 

As a Hon roused from sleeping, 
For they know they will be sweeping 
In a moment to the charge ! 

Brightly gleam six hundred sabres, 
And the brazen trumpets ring; 

Steeds are gathered, spurs are driven. 
And the heavens widely riven 

With a mad shout upward given, 
Scaring vultures on the wing. 

Stern its meaning! was not Gallia 
Looking down on Albion's sons? 

In each mind this thought implanted, 
Undismayed and all undaunted. 

By the battle-fields enchanted, 
They ride down upon the guns. 

Onward ! On ! the chargers trample ; 

Quicker falls each iron heel ! 
And the headlong pace grows faster; 

Noble steed and noble master, 
Rushing on to red disaster. 

Where the heavy cannons peal! 

In the van rides Captain Nolan ; 

Soldier stout he was and brave! 
And his shining sabre flashes, 

As upon the foe he dashes; 
God ! his face turns white as ashes, 

He has ridden to his grave! 



JAMES BARRON HOPE 91 

Down he fell, prone from his saddle, 
Without motion, without breath, 

Never more a triumph to waken. 
He, the very first one taken, 

From the bough so sorely shaken. 
In that vintage-time of Death. 

In a moment, in a twinkling. 

He was gathered to his rest! 
In the time for which he'd waited, 

With his gallant heart elated, 
Down went Nolan, decorated 

With a death wound on the breast. 

Comrades still are onward charging, 

He is lying on the sod: 
Onward still their steeds are rushing 

Where the shot and shell are crushing; 
From his corpse the blood is gushing, 

And his soul is with his God. 

As they spur on, what strange visions 

Flit across each rider's brain ! 
Thought of maidens fair, of mothers; 

Friends and sisters, wives and brothers, 
Blent with images of others, 

Whom they ne'er shall see again. 

Onward, on the squadrons thunder — 

Knightly hearts were theirs and brave, — 
Men and horses without number 



92 JAMES BARRON HOPE 

All the furrowed ground encumber, — 
Falling fast to their last slumber, — 
Bloody slumber! bloody graves! 

Of that charge at Balaklava — 

In its chivalry sublime — 
Vivid, grand, historic pages 

Shall descend to future ages; 
Poets, painters, hoary sages 

Shall record it for all time. 

Telling how those English horsemen 
Rode the Russian gunners down ; 

How v/ith ranks all thinned and shattered ; 
How with helmets hacked and battered ; 

How with sword arms blood-bespattered ; 
They won honor and renown. 

'Twas " not war," but it was splendid, 
As a dream of old romance — 

Thinking which their Gallic neighbors 
Thrilled to watch them at their labors, 

Hewing red graves with their sabres, 
In that wonderful advance. 

■Down went many a gallant soldier, 
Down went many a stout dragoon ; 

Lying grim, and stark, and gory, 
On that crimson field of glory. 

Leaving us a noble story 

And their white-cliffed home a boon. 



JAMES BARRON HOPE 93 

Full of hopes and aspirations 

Were their hearts at dawn of day; 

Now, with forms all rent and broken, 
Bearing each some frightful token 

Of a scene ne'er to be spoken, 
In their silent sleep they lay. 



Here a noble charger stiffens ; 

There his rider grasps the hilt 
Of his sabre lying bloody, 

By his side, upon the muddy, 
Trampled ground, which darkly ruddy 

Shows the blood that he has spilt. 



And to-night the moon shall shudder 
As she looks down on the moor, 

Where the dead of hostile races 

Slumber, slaughtered in their places; 

All their rigid ghastly faces 

Spattered hideously with gore. 



And the sleepers! ah, the sleepers 
Make a Westminster that day; 

'Mid the seething battle's lava ! 

And each man who fell shall have a 

Proud inscription — Balaklava — 
Which shall never fade away. 



94 JAMES BARRON HOPE 

CUBA 
O'er thy purple hills, O Cuba! 
Through thy valleys of romance, 
All thy glorious dreams of freedom 
Are but dreamt as In a trance. 

Mountain pass and fruitful valley, 
Mural town and spreading plain 
Show the footstep of the Spaniard, 
In his burning lust for gain. 

Since the caravel of Colon 
Grated first upon thy strand, 
Everything about thee, Cuba, 
Shews the Iron Spanish hand. 

Hear that crash of martial music! 
From the plaza how It swells ! 
How it trembles with the meaning 
Of the story that it tells ! 

Turn thy steps up to Altares — 
There was done a deed of shame! 
Hapless men were coldly butchered,- 
'Tis a part of Spanish fame! 

Wander now down to the Punta, 
Lay thy hand upon thy throat — 
Thou wilt see a Spanish emblem 
In the dark and grim garrote. 

In the Morro, in the market, 
In the shadow, in the sun, 



JAMES BARRON HOPE 95 

Thou wilt see the bearded Spaniard 
Where a gold piece may be won. 

And they fatten on thee, Cuba! 
Gay soldado — cunning priest! 
How these vultures flock and hover 
On thy tortured breast to feast. 

Thou Prometheus of the ocean ! 

Bound down, — not for what thou'st done, 

But for fear thy social stature 

Should start living In the sun ! 

And we give thee tears, O Cuba! 
And our prayers to God uplift, 
That at last the flame celestial 
May come down to thee — a gift ! 



JOHN ESTEN COOKE 

1830— 1886 

This most popular author was born in Win- 
chester, Virginia, and his father was John Rogers 
Cooke, an eminent lawyer of Richmond. John 
Esten Cooke left school at sixteen. Then he 
studied law, practicing with his father for about 
four years, after which he devoted himself to lit- 
erary work. Here he followed three lines, biog- 
raphy, fiction and poetry, and he classes well with 
the novelists of our country. His writings are not 
so voluminous as Cooper's and Simms', but he 
ranks with them. 

In the beginning of the Civil War Cooke en- 
listed and served first as a private in the artillery 
and was in almost all the battles in Virginia, most 
of the time serving as a member of General J. E. 
B. Stuart's staf^. At General Lee's surrender he 
was inspector-general of the horse artillery of 
the Army of Northern Virginia. 

From his experience it is only natural that 
Cooke's stories should relate almost entirely to 
Virginia, its life, its romance, its manners and 
customs. 

At the close of the Civil War Cooke returned 

96 



I 



JOHN ESTEN COOKE 97 

to his home at " Eagle's Nest " where, in quiet 
and peace, with his children and wife, he pursued 
his writings, producing volume after volume of 
intense and dramatic romance. He was cousin of 
John Pendleton Kennedy of Baltimore, and was 
married to Miss Mary Page, one of that distin- 
guished family in Virginia. 

His home was beautifully located, and his 
neighbors were the Nelsons, the Pages, the Ran- 
dolphs and other well-known families. 

John Esten Cooke is pre-eminently the Southern 
novelist of the Civil War, and his literary work 
was done purely for love of the work and not for 
remuneration. 

The one of his novels which had the largest 
sale was entitled " Surry of Eagle's Nest." It is 
a striking portrayal of life in the Old Dominion, 
and, as with all Cooke's fiction, it holds the 
interest of the reader to the very end. The skill 
with which all the scenes and events are pictured 
is truly wonderful, and the pen portraits of such 
men as " Jeb " Stuart," " Stonewall " Jackson 
and others are truthful and convincing. 

'* Mohun " is a sequel to " Surry of Eagle's 
Nest." It is a magnificent drama, opening with 
a cavalry review in June, 1863, on the plains of 
Culpeper, and the story ends in 1865, when with 
his pass the paroled prisoner went slowly across 
Virginia to his home. 



98 JOHN EST EN COOKE 

But all was not taken. Honor was left us, and the 
angels at home. Hearts beat fast as gray uniforms were 
clasped In long embrace. Those angels at home loved the 
poor prisoners better in their dark days than in their 
bright ones. 

" Hilt to Hilt " is a novel In which one learns 
to appreciate the poetry and valor of 1864, the 
deeds of bravery, the tremendous sacrifice of prop- 
erty and blood, and the destruction of social life 
In the South, such as the author saw with his own 
eyes. 

" Fairfax " Is a love story, the scene of which 
Is located in the Blue Ridge and the valley of the 
historic Shenandoah River. Many pages are full 
of pathos, simple as a child's life, yet deeply 
touching, as where the child Connie dies, and the 
boy sings: 

Oh! she was an angel, 

Last year she died, 

Toll the bell, a funeral knell 

For my young Virginia bride. 

All the novels of Cooke are replete with South- 
ern history and the life of the old South, and they 
should be preserved and read for generations. 

Mr. Cooke was a man of attractive personal 
appearance, medium height, well formed, with fine 
eyes and the courtly manner of a Southern gentle- 
man. He preferred a literary career to all others, 
and while he was an ardent Southerner, he wrote 



JOHN ESTEN COOKE 99 

without bitterness. His " History of Virginia " 
is one of the most dehghtful of the " Common- 
wealth Series," and is itself like a beautiful ro- 
mance. 

Many of Cooke's writings are scattered among 
various papers and magazines and have never 
been collected and put in book form, but his pub- 
lished books are: 

" The Virginia Comedians," " Leather Stock- 
ing and Silk," " Surry of Eagle's Nest," '' The 
Youth of Jefferson," "Wearing the Gray," " My 
Lady Pocahontas," '' Henry St. John, or Bonnybel 
Vane," " Mohun, or Last Days of Lee and his 
Paladins," " Her Majesty the Queen," " Pretty 
Mrs. Gaston," " Stories of the Old Dominion," 
"The Maurice Mystery," "The Grantley's 
Idea," " Professor Pressensee," " Virginia Bo- 
hemians," " Hammer and Rapier," " Hilt to 
Hilt," " Life of General Lee," " Stonewall Jack- 
son," " A Biography of Virginia, a History of the 
People." 

MISS BONNYBEL 

Vanely was one of those old mansions whose walls still 
stand in Virginia, the eloquent memorials of other times, 
and the good old race who filled the past days with so 
many festivals, and such high revelry. 

The first brick of the edifice had been laid upon the lap 
of a baby, afterwards known as Colonel Vane, and passed 
through his baby fingers. The life of the mansion and the 
owner thus commenced together. It was a broad, ram- 



loo JOHN ESTEN COOKE 

bllng old house, perched on a sort of upland which com- 
manded a noble landscape of field and river; and in front 
of the portal, two great oaks stretched out their gigantic 
arms, gnarled and ancient, like guardians of the edifice. 
In these as in the hundred others, scattered over the un- 
dulating lawn, and crowning every knoll, a thousand 
birds were carroling, and a swarm of swallows darted 
backward and forward, circling around the stacks of chim- 
neys, and making the air vocal with their merriment. 

There was about the odd old mansion an indefinable air 
of comfort and repose, and, within, these characteristics 
were equally discernible. The old portraits ranged along 
the hall in oaken frames, looked serenely down upon the 
beholder, and with powdered heads, and lace ruffs, and 
carefully arranged drapery, seemed to extend a stately and 
impressive welcome. Sir Arthur Vane, who fought for a 
much less worthy man at Marston Moor, was there, with 
his flowing locks and peaked head, and wide collar of rich 
Venice lace, covering his broad shoulders; and Miss Ma- 
ria Vane, with towering curls, and jewel-decorated fin- 
gers, playing with her lap-dog, smiling meanwhile with 
that winning grace which made her a toast in the days of 
her kinsman Bolingbroke, and Mr. Addison; and more 
than one tender and delicate child, like violets or snow- 
drops, in the midst of these sturdy family trunks, or 
blooming roses, added a finishing grace to the old walls — 
that grace which nothing but the forms of children ever 
give. Deer antlers, guns, an old sword or two, and a 
dozen London prints of famous race horses completed the 
adornment of the hall ; and from this wide space, the plain 
oaken stairway ran up, and the various doors opened to 
the apartments on the ground floor of the mansion. 



yi:t 



JOH^ EST EN COOKE loi 

On the May morning we have spoken of, the old house 
was in its glory; for the trees were covering themselves 
densely with fresh green foliage, and the grounds were 
carpeted with emerald grass, studded with flowers, wav- 
ing their delicate heads, and murmuring gently in the 
soft spring breeze and the golden sunshine. The oriole 
swung from the top-most boughs, and poured his flood of 
song upon the air; the woodpecker's bright wings flapped 
from tree to tree; and a multitude of swamp-sparrows 
flashed in and out of the foliage and fruit blossoms, or 
circled joyously around the snowy fringe-trees sparkling 
in the sunshine. From the distant fields and forests the 
monotonous caw of the crows, winging their slow way 
through the blue sky, indicated even on the part of these 
ancient enemies of the corn field, joyous satisfaction at 
the incoming of the warm season after the long winter; 
and a thousand merry robins flew about, with red breasts 
shaken by melodious chirpings, and brilliant plumage bur- 
nished by sunlight. 

Everything was bright with the youthful joy of spring, 
and as Mr. St. John and his friend dismounted before the 
old mansion, the very walls upon which the waving 
shadows of a thousand leaves were thrown seemed smiling, 
and prepared to greet them; the open portal held imagi- 
nary arms to welcome them. 

Before this portal stood, — its old form basking pleas- 
antly in the sunshine, — the roomy, low-swung family 
chariot, with its four long-tailed grays, as ancient, very 
nearly, as its self, and showing by their well-conditioned 
forms and glossy manes the result of tranquil, easy living. 
By their side stood the old white-haired negro driver, time 
out of mind the family coachman of the Vanes; and in 



I02 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 

person of this worthy African gentleman a similar mode 
of living was unmistakably indicated. Old Cato had 
evidently little desire to be a censor; sure of his own high 
position, and quite easy on the subject of the purity of 
the family blood, he was plainly satisfied with his lot, 
and had no desire to change the order of things. In his 
own opinion he was himself one of the family — a portion 
of the manor, a character of respectability and importance. 
Old Cato greeted the young gentlemen with familiar but 
respectful courtesy, and received their cordial shakes of 
the hand with evident pleasure. The horses even seemed 
to look for personal greeting, and when the young man 
passed his hand over their necks, they turned their intelli- 
gent heads and whinnied gently in token of recognition. 
Mr. St. John patted their coats familiarly, calling them 
by name, and looking up to the old man said, smiling : 

" Welcome, Vanely. The month I've been away seems 
a whole century. After all, the town is nothing like the 
country, and no other part of it's like Vanely." 

• • • • • 

" Suppose you look a minute at the original," said a 
voice at his elbow. St. John turns quickly and sees the 
vivacious Miss Bonnybel, decked out for the evening, at 
his side. " But if I prefer the portrait? " he replies; '* it 
reminds me of old times." 

" When I was a child, I suppose, sir! " 
"Yes; and when you loved me more than now." 
"Who said I did not love you now?" asked the girl 
with coquettish glance. 
"Do you?" 

" Certainly. I love you dearly — you and all my 
cousins." 



JOHN ESTEN COOKE 103 

St. John sighed, and then laughed ; but said nothing, 
and offering his arm, led the girl into the sitting-room. 

The young girls, whilst awaiting the appearance of 
Caesar, the violin player, from the " quarters," amused 
themselves writing their names, after a fashion very preva- 
lent in Virginia, upon the panes of the windows. For 
this purpose they made use of diamond rings, or, better 
still, the long sharp pointed crystals known as " Virginia 
diamonds." 

With these the gallants found no difficulty in inscrib- 
ing the names of their sweet-hearts, with all the flourishes 
of a writing-master, on the glass, and very soon the glit- 
tering tablets were scrawled over with Lucies and Fan- 
nies, and a brilliant genius of the party even executed some 
fine profile portraits. 

Those names have remained there for nearly a century, 
and when, afterwards, the persons who traced them 
looked with age-dimmed eyes upon the lines, the dead day 
rose again before them, and its forms appeared once more, 
laughing and joyous, as at Vanely that evening. And 
not here only may these memorials of another age be 
found; in a hundred Virginia houses they speak of the 
past. 

Yes, yes, those names on the panes of Vanely are a 
spell! They sound like a strange music, a bright wonder 
in the ears of their descendants! Frail chronicle! How 
you bring up the brilliant eyes again, the jest and the 
glance, the joy and the laughter, the splendor and beauty 
which flashed onward, under other skies, in old Virginia, 
dead to us so long! As I gaze on j^our surface, bright 
panes of Vanely, I fancy with what sparkling eyes the 
names were traced. I see in a dream, as It were, the soft 



104 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 

white hand which laid its cushioned palm on this glitter- 
ing tablet; I see the rich dresses, the bending necks, the 
fingers gracefully inclined as the maidens leaned over 
to write " Lucy," and " Fanny," and *' Nelly," " Frances," 
and " Kate " ; I see the curls and the powder, the fur- 
belows and flounces, the ring on the finger, the lace on 
the arm, — lace that was yellow indeed by the snow it 
enveloped ! I see no less clearly, the forms of the gallants, 
those worthy young fellows in ruffles and fairtops; I see 
all the smiles, and the laughter, and love. Oh beautiful 
figures of a dead generation! You are only phantoms. 
You are all gone, and your laces have faded or are moth- 
eaten ; you are silent now, and still, and the minuet bows 
no more, you are dimly remembered, the heroines of a 
tale that is told, you live on a window pane only! Old 
panes! it is the human story that I read in you, — the legend 
of a generation, and of all generations ! For what are the 
records of earth and its actors but frost work on a pane, 
or those scratches of a diamond which a blow shatters. A 
trifle may shiver the tablet and strew it in the dust. 
There is only one record, one tablet, where the name 
which is written lives for ever; it is not in this world, 
'tis beyond the stars. 

"Oh, there's Uncle Caesar!" cries Bonnybel, "and 
we'll have a dance " 

We pause a moment to look on the minuet, to listen to 
old Uncle Caesar fiddle, to hear the long-drawn music 
wind its liquid cadences through mellow variations, and 
to see the forms and faces of the young men and the 
maidens. 

By permission of G. W . Dillingham Co., New York 
City, 



MRS. MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 
1810—1883 

Beaufort, South Carolina, was the birth-place 
of Mary Stanly Bunce Palmer, but while she was 
very young her father, the Rev. B. M. Palmer, re- 
moved to Charleston, South Carolina, and in that 
city, little Mary, the child of sweet songs, was 
educated at the seminary of the Ramsey sisters, 
daughters of the historian. Dr. David Ramsey. 

On account of her delicate health Miss Palmer 
finished her studies in the North, and while in 
school she became noted for her poetic genius. 
Her graceful manners and sprightly conversa- 
tion made her at all times a desirable companion; 
while her ready sympathy and thorough apprecia- 
tion of the feelings of others rendered her a 
warmly cherished friend. After leaving school 
she returned to Charleston and became a contribu- 
tor to different periodicals. In 1835 she married 
Mr. Charles E. Dana of New York City, where 
they resided for three years. Then Bloomington, 
Iowa, became her home, but she had not lived in 
that city long until death took from her, in two 
short days, her husband and their only child. Thus 

105 



io6 MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 

bereft, it was only natural that she should again 
return to Charleston, her childhood home. 

" From early youth she had written for amuse- 
ment, occasionally contributing to various publica- 
tions, but now she devoted her fine talents to the 
task as a regular occupation, and, in 1841, pub- 
lished that happy combination of music and poetry, 
' The Southern Harp.' A similar volume soon 
followed under the title of ' The Northern 
Harp.' Both of these books received a hearty 
welcome, and the combination of her own pure 
thoughts with the secular music familiar at that 
time proved a happy and popular union." 

" The Parted family and Other Poems " was 
published in 1842, and contained such songs as 
" Pass Under the Rod," " Come Sing to Me of 
Heaven," " A Pilgrim and a Stranger," " Shed 
Not a Tear," and many other beautiful verses. 
About the year 1844 Mrs. Dana wrote "The 
Temperance Lyre " and published a number of 
short stories. She wrote several prose works, 
including " Forecastle Tom," " The Young 
Sailor," and " Charles Martin, or the Young Pa- 
triot," but her largest and best-known prose work 
is entitled " Letters to Relatives and Friends," 
and was published in both the United States and 
in England. 

A great sorrow again filled the heart of Mrs. 
Dana. In 1847 death robbed her of the sweet 



MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 107 

companionship of her loving parents. In 1848 
she became the wife of the Rev. Robert D. Shin- 
dler, an Episcopal clergyman. In 1868 the fam- 
ily moved to Nacogdoches, Texas, where both 
TVlr. and Mrs. Shindler died, leaving an only 
child, Mr. Robert C. Shindler, who still survives 
them and lives in that city. 

PASS UNDER THE ROD 

It was the custom of the Jews to select the tenth of 
their sheep after this manner: The lambs were separated 
from their dams, and enclosed in a sheep-cote, with only 
the narrow way out ; the lambs were at the entrance. On 
opening the gate, the lambs hastened to join their dams, 
and a man placed at the entrance, with a rod dipped in 
ochre, touched every tenth lamb, and so marked It with 
his rod, saying, " Let this be holy." — Union Bible Dic- 
tionary. ..." And I will cause you to pass under the 
rod and I will bring you Into the bond of the covenant." 
— Ezeklel. 

I saw the young bride. In her beauty and pride. 

Bedecked In her snowy array. 
And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek 

And the future looked blooming and gay; 
And with woman's devotion she laid her fond heart 

At the shrine of Idolatrous love. 
And she anchored her hopes to this perishing earth, 

By the chain which her tenderness wove. 
But I saw when those heart-strings were bleeding and 
torn, 

And the chain had been severed In two, 



io8 MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 

She had changed her white robes for the sables of grief, 

And her bloom for the paleness of woe ! 
But the Healer was there, pouring balm on her heart 

And wiping the tears from her eyes. 
And He strengthened the chain He had broken in twain, 

And fastened it firm to the skies: 
There had whispered a voice, 'twas the voice of her God, 

*' I love thee, I love thee! pass under the rod! " 

I saw a young mother in tenderness bend 

O'er the couch of her slumbering boy, 
And she kissed the soft lips, as they murmured her name, 

While the dreamer lay smiling in joy. 
Oh ! sweet as a rose-bud encircled with dew. 

When its fragrance is flung on the air, 
So fresh and so bright to the mother he seemed, 

As he lay in his innocence there! 
But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form. 

Pale as marble, and silent, and cold. 
But paler and colder her beautiful boy, 

And the tale of her sorrow was told ; 
But the Healer was there, who had smitten her heart 

And taken her treasure away, 
To allure her to Heaven, He has placed it on high. 

And the mourner will sweetly obey. 
There had whispered a voice, 'twas the voice of her God, 

" I love thee, I love thee! pass under the rod! " 

I saw when a father and mother had leaned 

On the arm of a dear cherished son. 
And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze. 

As they saw the proud place he had won ; 



MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 109 

And the fast-coming evening of life promised fair, 

And its pathway grew smooth to their feet, 
And the star-light of love glimmered bright at the end, 

And the whispers of fancy were sweet; 
But I saw when they stood bending low o'er the grave, 

Where their heart's dearest hope had been laid, 
And the star had gone down in the darkness of night. 

And the joy from their bosoms had fled; 
But the Healer was there, and His arms were around 

And He led them with tenderest care, 
And He showed them a star in the bright upper world, 

'Twas their star shining brilliantly there. 
They had each heard a voice, 'twas the voice of their God, 

" I love thee, I love thee ! pass under the rod ! " 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

1848 — 1908 

Middle Georgia has contributed much of the 
brightest and most original humor of the South. 
Here native material for fiction was early used 
by writers who saw the quaint habits and heard 
the dialect of plantation life. " No one of the 
group of original and fascinating writers of the 
South has been truer in delineation of character 
or more keenly alive to the folk-lore, the pathos, 
the human life of the simple, hearty, independent, 
homogeneous people of middle Georgia than Joel 
Chandler Harris, who was born in Putnam 
County, Georgia." 

Poverty was the first gift presented to the boy- 
hood of Joel Chandler Harris, but he was eager, 
alive and watchful for opportunities. A Mr. 
Turner, living near, on a large plantation, began 
the publication of a small local paper called " The 
Countryman," a weekly sheet somewhat after the 
order of " The Rambler." In looking over the 
first issue, young Harris saw an advertisement for 
a boy to work in the editor's office and to learn 
the printing business. An application was quickly 



no 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS iii 

made for the place, and here was the lad's oppor- 
tunity, for Mr. Turner was wealthy, had a large 
plantation, and better still, about three thousand 
well-selected books, of which young Harris be- 
came a constant reader. This was good soil in 
which his genius could grow. From among these 
books, it is said that the first story he read was 
" The Vicar of Wakefield," the simple charm of 
which never was forgotten by him, even after he 
became, himself, a writer of beautiful fiction. 

Mr. Harris says he likes stories that portray 
" human nature, humble, fascinating, plain, com- 
mon human nature." 

During his life on the plantation, teeming with 
slaves, and other interesting characters, this young 
man Harris absorbed every phase of passing 
events, and *' his keen observation and boundless 
sympathies put him in touch with every dog, 
horse, black runaway and white deserter, master 
and slave." 

It is not strange that, under the influence of this 
library, and surrounded by the romance, the 
pathos and beauty of the old Southern plantation 
life, Joel Chandler Harris began to write. At 
first his extreme modesty induced him to publish 
his work under a nom de plume, but later 
kindly notice and the encouraging reception of 
his articles induced him to write regularly, using 
his own name. This pleasant existence ended, for, 



112 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

during the Civil war, after Sherman's march 
through Georgia, there was nothing left on the 
plantation, and Harris went to Macon, where he 
found work on *' The Daily Telegraph " of that 
city, and finally became owner of " The Forsyth 
Advertiser." One night he wrote the first sketch, 
in " Legends of the Plantation," which was the 
beginning of " Uncle Remus " and the '' Little 
Boy." Fame came to him at once. The true 
secret of the real value of Uncle Remus' tales is 
found in the fact that Mr. Harris " had the rare 
ability to seize the heart of a suggestion, and make 
a section famous with a legend." It seems almost 
impossible for late song writers, novelists, or his- 
torians to appreciate the nature or understand the 
conditions of the plantation negro, but " there is 
no misrepresentation in the writings of Joel Chan- 
dler Harris, not a word strikes a false accent, not 
a scene or incident is out of keeping with the life 
he knew so thoroughly." 

Quoting from Julian W. Abernethy: "The 
strenuous work of reconstruction called him, and 
he entered actively into the reviving journalism 
of the South, finally becoming associated with the 
" Atlanta Constitution," as editor, which place he 
filled for twenty-five years. Having retired from 
active journalism, he now devoted his time entirely 
to literature. His published writings are : 

" Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings," 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 113 

" Nights with Uncle Remus," " Uncle Remus and 
His Friends," "Max Mingo," "Mr. Little 
Thimblefinger," " On the Plantation," " Daddy 
Jake, the Runaway," " Balaam and His Master," 
"Mr. Rabbit at Home," "The Story of 
Aaron," " Sister Jane," " Free Joe," " Stories of 
Georgia," " Aaron in the Wild Woods," " Tales 
of the Home Folks," " Georgia, from the Invasion 
of De Soto to Recent Times," " Evening Tales," 
" Stories of Home Folks," " Chronicles of Aunt 
Minerva Ann," " On the Wings of Occasion," 
" The Making of a Statesman." 

The following extract from the " Old Bascom 
Place," shows the peculiar love of the planter of 
the Old South for his country home and how diffi- 
cult it was for the aged Southern man to adjust 
himself to the new conditions. 

The crash came when General Sherman went marching 
through Hillsborough. The Bascom Place, being the 
largest and the richest plantation in that neighborhood, 
suffered the worst. Every horse, every mule, every living 
thing with hide and hoof, was driven off by the Federals, 
and a majority of the negroes went along with the army. 
It was often said of Judge Bascom that he had so many 
negroes he didn't know them when he met them in the 
big road, and this was probably true. His negroes knew 
him, and knew that he was a kind master in many re- 
spects, but they had no personal affection for him. They 
were such strangers to the Judge that they never felt 



114 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

justified in complaining to him even when the overseers 
ill-treated them. 

Consequently, when Sherman went marching along, the 
great majority of them bundled up their little effects and 
followed after the army. They had nothing to bind them 
to the old place. The house servants and a few negroes, in 
whom the Judge took a personal interest, remained, but 
all the rest went away. 

Then, in a few months, came the news of the surren- 
der, bringing with it a species of paralysis or stupefaction 
from which the people were long in recovering — so long, 
indeed, that some of them died in despair, while others 
lingered on the stage, watching, with dim eyes and trem- 
bling limbs, half-hopefully and half-fretfuUy, the repre- 
sentatives of a new generation trying to build up the waste 
places. There was nothing left for Judge Bascom to do 
but to take his place among the spectators 

Briefly, the world had drifted past him and his con- 
temporaries and left them stranded. Under the circum- 
stances, what was he to do? It is true he had a magnifi- 
cent plantation, but this merely added to his poverty. 
Negro labor was demoralized, and the overseer class had 
practically disappeared. He would have sold a part of 
his landed estate; indeed, so pressing were his needs that 
he would have sold everything except the house which his 
father had built and where he himself was born, — that he 
would not have parted with for all the riches in the 
world — but there was nobody to buy. The Judge's neigh- 
bors and his friends, with the exception of those who had 
accustomed themselves to seizing all contingencies by the 
throat and wrestling tribute from them, were in as severe 
a strait as he was ; and to make matters worse, the political 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 115 

affairs of the State were in the most appalling condition. 
It was the period of reconstruction. Finally time brought 
a purchaser, and the old place became owned by a North- 
ern stranger. 

When Colonel Bascom and daughter walk 
round their loved home the following conversa- 
tion occurs: 

The old gentleman and the young lady walked slowly 
along the hedge of Cherokee roses that ran around the 
old Bascom Place, while the negro followed at a respect- 
ful distance. Once they pause, and the old gentleman 
rubbed his eyes with a hand that trembled a little. 

"Why, darling!" he exclaimed in a tone of mingled 
grief and astonishment, " they have cut it down." 

" Cut what down, father? " 

" Why, the weeping-willow. Don't you remember it, 
daughter? It stood in the middle of the field yonder. It 
was a noble tree. Well, well, well! What next, I 
wonder? " 

" I do not remember it, father ; I have so much 
to " 

" Yes, yes," the old gentleman interrupted. " Of course 
you couldn't remember. The place has been changed so 
that I have forgotten it myself. It has been turned topsy- 
turvy — ruined — ruined ! " He leaned on his cane, and 
with quivering lips and moist eyes looked through the 
green perspective of the park and over the fertile fields 
and meadows. 

" Ruined ! " exclaimed the young lady, " how can you 
say so, father? I never saw a more beautiful place. It 
would make a lovely picture." 



ii6 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

** And they have changed the house, too. The whole 
roof has been changed." The old man pulled down his 
hat over his eyes, his hand trembling more than ever. 
" Let us turn back, Mildred," he said after a while. " The 
sight of all this frets and worries me more than I thought 
it would." 

** They say," said the daughter, '' that the gentleman 
who owns the place has made a good deal of money." 

" Yes," replied the father, " I suppose so — I suppose 
so. So I have heard. A great many people are making 
money now who never made it before — a great many." 

** I wish they would tell us the secret," said the young 
lady, laughing a little. 

" There is no secret about it," said the old gentleman, 
" none whatever. To make money you must be mean and 
niggardly yourself and then employ others to be mean and 
niggardly for you." 

** Oh, it is not always so, father," the young girl ex- 
claimed. 

" It was not always so, my daughter. There was a 
time when one could make money and remain a gentle- 
man ; but that was many years ago." 



Once while the Judge and his daughter were passing 
by the old Bascom Place they met Prince, the mastiff, in 
the road. The great dog looked at the young lady with 
kindly eyes and expressed his approval by wagging his 
tail. At the gate he stopped and turned around, and 
seeing the fair lady and old gentleman were going by, he 
dropped his bulky body on the ground in a disconsolate 
way and watched them as they passed down the street. 



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 117 

The next afternoon Prince made it a point to watch 
for the young lady; and when she and her father ap- 
peared in sight he ran to meet them and cut up such 
unusual capers, barking and running around, that the 
master went down the avenue to see what the trouble was. 
Mr. Underwood (the new owner of the Bascom Place) 
took off his hat as Judge Bascom and his daughter drew 
near. 

" This is Judge Bascom, I presume," he said. " My 
name is Underwood; I am glad to meet you." 

" This is my daughter, Mr. Underwood," said the 
Judge, bowing with great dignity. 

" My dog has paid you a great compliment. Miss Bas- 
com," said Francis Underwood. " He makes few friends, 
and I have never before seen him sacrifice his dignity, 
through his enthusiasm." 

" I feel highly flattered by his attentions," said Mildred, 
laughing. " I have read somewhere, or heard it said, that 
the instinct of a little child and a dog are unerring." 

" I imagine," said the Judge, in his dignified way, " that 
instinct has little to do with the matter. I prefer to be- 
lieve " — He paused a moment, looked at Underwood, and 
laid his hand on the young man's stalwart shoulder. " Did 
you know, sir," he went on, " that this place, all these 
lands, once belonged to me? " His dignity had vanished, 
his whole attitude changed. The pathos in his voice, 
which was suggested rather than expressed, swept away 
whatever astonishment Francis Underwood might have 
felt. The young man looked at the Judge's daughter and 
their eyes met. In that one glance, transitory though it 
was, he found his cue; in lustrous eyes, proud yet appeal- 
ing, he read a history of trouble and sacrifice. 



ii8 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 

** Yes," Underwood replied, in a matter-of-fact way. 
** We still call it the Bascom Place, you know." 

** I should think so! " exclaimed the Judge, bridling up 
a little; " I should think so! Pray what else could it be 
called?" 

" Well, it might have been called Grassland, you know, 
or The Poplars, but somehow the old name seemed to 
suit it best. I like to think of it as the old Bascom Place. 
Won't you go in, sir, and look at the old house? " 

The Judge turned his pale and wrinkled face toward 
his old home. 

" No," he said, " not now. I thank you very much. 
I — somehow — no, sir, I cannot go now." 

His hand shook as he raised it to his face, and his lips 
trembled as he spoke. " Let us go away, daughter," he 
said after a while. '' We have walked far enough." 

By permission of the Century Company, PublisherSj 
New York, 



MRS. VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 
1830— 1881 

Virginia Smith (Mrs. Virginia L. French) 
had many advantages of birth and education. Born 
on the fair shores of Virginia, at the country seat 
of her maternal grandfather, Captain Thomas 
Parker, an officer in the Revolutionary War, edu- 
cated in Pennsylvania and married in Tennessee, 
her life has been like herself, varied and cosmo- 
politan. She is, nevertheless, a true daughter of 
the Old Dominion; a fair representative of its gay 
grace, its cordial hospitality, its love of luxury, 
and its indomitable pride. 

" The personal appearance of Mrs. French was 
highly prepossessing, and her manner so gifted 
with repose as to be unusually tranquilizing in its 
social influence. Possessed of a keen insight, she 
could see at a moment's glance the poetical in a 
scene or situation, and with her heart on fire with 
poetic zeal she made of her prose passages poetic 
jewels." 

Mrs. French at an early age was left an orphan. 
At eighteen she had finished her education, and the 
same year went to Memphis, Tennessee, to teach 

119 



I20 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 

school. She was a successful teacher for several 
years, but gradually turned her attention to liter- 
ary pursuits, occasionally contributing articles to 
the journals and magazines under the name of 
" L'Inconnue." In 1852 she became associate 
editor of '' The Southern Ladies' Book," published 
in New Orleans. 

She wrote under the nom de plume of " L'ln- 
connue," and her poem, " The Lost Louisiana," 
in quite a romantic way brought about a meeting 
with Mr. John H. French, whom she married in 
1853. A newsboy in New Orleans selling a morn- 
ing paper spoke of a late poem on " The Lost 
Louisiana," written in commemoration of a col- 
lision which had just occurred between the " Lou- 
isiana " and the " Belle of Clarksville," two Mis- 
sissippi steamers. It so happened that Mr. French 
had been a passenger on the " Belle of Clarks- 
ville," and had lost much valuable cargo, barely 
escaping with his life. Interested thus in the disas- 
ter, he read the poem many times, and kept it 
carefully in his pocket-book. Not long after he 
took steamer passage up the Mississippi, and dur- 
ing the detention at Memphis he went into a book- 
store to buy some reading matter to relieve the 
hours of travel up the river. His attention was 
arrested by seeing the name of " L'Inconnue " and 
was told to look at the writer, as she was just then 
passing the book shop. He gave one look into 



VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 121 

the blue eyes that met his like the eyes of Fate. 
An introduction was effected, the steamer went on 
its way without Mr. French, and the result was 
marriage with the fair " L'Inconnue " and a long 
residence in McMinnville, Tennessee. Here Mrs. 
French's home, called " Forest Home," became 
noted for beautiful scenery, its comfort, its taste- 
ful arrangement, and here this writer led a retired, 
studious, and happy life. 

In 1856 Mrs. French published a collection of 
her poems under the title of " Wind Whispers." 
Her " Legends of the South " are finely imagina- 
tive and graphic. " Iztalilxo, the Lady of Tala," 
is a tragedy in five acts and contains passages of 
great beauty and force. Mrs. French's prose 
writings were instinct with poetical expression, and 
her review of Madame Le Vert's " Souvenirs of 
Travel " was copied into the best papers here and 
in Europe. 

*' The Legend of the Infernal Pass " was in- 
spired by the story of the famous gorge some fif- 
teen miles long, called " El Canon Inferno," 
where rise stupendous masses of rock piled upon 
rock, until the traveler sees at the top but a narrow 
strip of sky. The white steed alluded to in the 
tradition is still said to be seen at intervals by the 
warriors of the Comanches. He is represented as 
of exceeding beauty and vigor, but of such swift- 
ness that, notwithstanding the most daring efforts 



122 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 

to capture him, he has never been brought within 
range of the lariat. 

His neigh to the wind rose wild and high, 

(Thou rider bold, take heed,) 
With the stag's fleet foot he bounded by, 

That beautiful demon-steed ! 
But the glare of his eye the soul had shook, 

With its terrible human look! 



The versatility of this gifted poet has caused her 
critics to take different views of her work. One 
says: "As a journalist she was par excellence." 
Another one says: "Poetry was her strong 
point," and for the poem " Shermanlzed " claims 
that: "Never sprang cooler and keener sarcasm 
from more tranquil lips. It Is the flash of the 
' yataghan ' from a velvet sheath — the cold, clear 
gleam of the sword from a silver scabbard." Still 
another critic, takes another view and says: " Mrs. 
French writes the best prose, with the strongest 
sense In It, of any Southern writer." 

Among Mrs. French's poems are : " The Elo- 
quence of Ruins," " Mammy," " Sherman- 
lzed," " The Auctioneer," " The Broken Sen- 
tence." Her other works are: "Wind Whis- 
pers," " Legends of the South," " Iztalllxo," 
a Tragedy; and " My Roses, The Romance of a 
June Day." 



VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 123 

She has written one poem which many regarded 
as unequaled in its line by any writer. It is a mas- 
terpiece of the highest type and deservedly ranks 
with the greatest efforts of American poets. 

THE LEGEND OF THE LOST SOUL 

Ha! what a frenzied cry 
Up the lone forest-aisles comes sadly wailing, 
Now quick and sharp, now choked with agony, 
As sight and sense were failing. 

The far stars coldly smiled 
Down through the arches of the twilight wood. 
Where sire and mother sought their child. 
In the dark solitude. 

And low the phantom wind 
Came stealing o'er the hills with ghostly feet, 
But paused not in its flight to bear one kind, 
Soft echo, shrill and sweet. 

O'er them the giant trees, 

All proudly waving, tossed their arms on high, 
Yet no loved baby-voice from 'midst of these 
Answered their broken cry. 

But one sad piping note. 
That strangely syllabled a blended name, 
As seemed its cadences to fall or float 
From boughs above them came. 



124 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 

The mother started wild, 

As that strange sound the forest foliage stirred, 
Then hastened to the sire; she knew her child, 
In that lone spirit-bird. 

No word the father spake ; 
His face was ghastly, and its haggard lines 
Lay stern and rigid, like some frozen lake 
O'ershadowed by its pines. 

Shuddering she strove to speak, 
Once more in nature's strong appealing tones, 
To supplicate her child — there came a shriek 
That died in heavy moans. 

The night came down ; afar 
Was heard the hoarse, deep baying of the storm, 
And thunder clouds around each captive star 
In black battalions form. 

Now, all the mighty wood 
Has voices like the sullen sounding sea, 
While onward rolls the deep majestic flood 
His surges solemnly. 

The massy foliage rocks, 
Slow swaying to the wind, and failing fast 
Embattled oaks, that braved a thousand shocks, 
Are bending to the blast. 

And crimson tropic bloom 
Lies heaped upon the sward, as though a wave 
Of summer sunset streams within the gloom 
Had found a verdant grave. 



VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 125 

Down came the rushing rain, 
But far, perchance, where thunders never roll. 
The bird had flown, the parents called in vain, 
Upon the wandering soul. 

Then feeble 'mid the maze 
Of 'wildering storm, their feet the cabin sought, 
Oft turning back to search, with blinded gaze, 
For that which now was not. 

True, true — the tale is old. 
And full of sorrow the tradition hoary. 
Yet, daily life's unwritten annals hold 
A sterner, sadder story. 

Oh ! hear ye not the cry. 

That every hour sends up where thick life presses, 
That shrieks from lowest depths to God on high 
From life's great wilderness? 

It is the cry of Woman, 
And hers the really lost and wandering soul, 
Seeking, amid the godlike, yet the human. 
To find her destined goal. 

Like glacier of the North, 
Her pure and shining spirit braves the sea 
Of Life and Action, drifting, drifting forth 
On waves of destiny. 

" Deep calling unto deep," 
How raves the ocean by the tempest tossed ! 
Perchance her onward course the soul may keep. 
Perchance 'tis wrecked, or lost. 



126 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 

Perchance some other heart, 
In pride of Being, standing firm and free. 
May call, '* Oh, seeker of the better part. 
Come, wanderer, to me! " 

Alas! that dulcet tone 

Is but the hollow music of a shell 

That mocks the ocean ; yet, the pilgrim lone 

It wins as by a spell. 

The dream, the dream is past — 
Perchance some careless word, some fancied wrong, 
The soul is driven forth — Oh ! woe the last, 
The weaker by the strong. 

From her closed lips a moan 
Goes up — yet seems it her unspoken prayer 
Falls back again upon her heart alone 
To sink and perish there. 

And then her spirit pants 
Beneath the heat and burden of the day, 
Still struggling on amid the vulture wants 
That make her heart their prey. 

Still, in its source of pain 
Clinging most fondly; and, in holy trust. 
Pouring its worship in a worse than vain 
Idolatry of dust. 

Like the great organ rocks 

That rise on Orinoco's distant shore, 

She sends rich music o'er the wave that mocks, 

Yet answers her no more ! 



VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 127 

From the still firmament 

A star drops, sparkles, and almost before 

The eye can note, is gone — ^with chaos blent — , 

Its brilliancy is o'er. 

And thus with thee, — ^unknown, 
Unrecognized, and lost in earthly clime, 
Thy 'wildered soul may wander, and alone 
Go from the shores of time. 

Yet, far in yon blue dome, 
Where dwell the spirits of the dead departed, 
There thou art known ; and they will welcome home 
An angel, — broken-hearted. 

Then courage, weary one! 

Work while thou may'st, — for though thy spirit, 

riven. 
Is fading like a fountain in the sun, 
Exhaled, it reaches heaven ! 



GRACE ELIZABETH KING 

1852 . 

Still living in the old homestead in the city of 
New Orleans, where she was born, Grace King 
continues her literary work, which was begun 
many years ago. Her excellent stories are still 
being published in " The Century Magazine." 
She is the daughter of a prominent native Lou- 
isiana family. 

Possibly her strongest work is entitled " Earth- 
lings." In it are pictured with intense reality the 
possibilities of those who can be conscientiously 
called '' Earthlings." It is a story full of fire and 
pathos from beginning to end. Indeed, as has 
been aptly said: " One closes the cover of the book 
with a heartfelt sigh that it is over, this dream 
through which you have been carried, so beauti- 
ful and yet so true." 

It is probable that her greatest reputation has 
been achieved on what is known as her " Balcony 
Stories," for it is these that she devoted largely 
to pictures of Creole beauties. A passage taken 
from one of them will be sufficient to show how 
minutely she enters into detail, and yet with what 

128 



GRACE ELIZABETH KING 129 

tact and ability she manages to hold the reader's 
interest, all the while showing all the follies and 
foibles, as well as the virtues, of the heroine. 

LA GRANDE DEMOISELLE 

That was what she was called by everybody as soon as 
she was seen or described. Her name, besides baptismal 
titles, was Idalie Sante Foy Mortemart des Islets. When 
she came into society, in the brilliant world of New Or- 
leans, it was the event of the season, and after she came 
in, whatever she did became also events. Whether she 
went, or did not go; what she said, or did not say; what 
she wore, and did not wear, all these became important 
matters of discussion, quoted as much or more than what 
the President said, or the Governor thought, and in those 
days, the days of '59, New Orleans was not, as it is now, 
a one-heiress place, but it may be said that one could find 
heiresses then as one finds typewriting girls now. 

Mademoiselle Idalie received her birth and what educa- 
tion she had on her parents' plantation, the famed old 
Reine Sainte Foy place, and It Is no secret that, like the 
ancient Kings of France, her birth exceeded her education. 

It was a plantation, the Relne Sainte Foy, the richness 
and luxury of which are really well described In those 
perfervid pictures of tropical life, at one time the passion 
of philanthropic Imaginations, excited and exciting over 
the horrors of slavery. Although these pictures were then 
often accused of being purposely exaggerated, they seem 
now to fall short of, Instead of surpassing the truth. 
Stately walls, acres of roses, miles of oranges, unmeasured 
fields of cane, colossal sugar house, — they were all there, 



130 GRACE ELIZABETH KING 

and all the rest of it with the slaves, slaves, slaves, every- 
w^here, whole villages of negro cabins, and there were 
also, — most noticeable to the natural as well as the vis- 
ionary eye — there were the ease, idleness, extravagance, 
self-indulgence, pomp, pride, arrogance, in short, the 
whole enumeration, the moral sine qua non, as some people 
considered it, of the wealthy slave-holder of aristocratic 
descent and estates. 

What Mademoiselle Idalie cared to learn she studied, 
what she did not she ignored ; and she followed the same 
simple rule untrammeled in her eating, drinking, dressing, 
and comportment generally; and whatever discipline may 
have been exercised on the place, either in fact or fiction, 
most assuredly none of it, even so much as in a threat, 
ever attained her sacred person. When she was just 
turned sixteen Mademoiselle Idalie made up her mind to 
go into society. Whether she was beautiful or not, it is 
hard to say. It is almost impossible to appreciate properly 
the beauty of the rich, the very rich. The unfettered 
development, the limitless choice of accessories, the confi- 
dence, the self-esteem, the sureness of expression, the sim- 
plicity of purpose, the ease of execution, all these produce 
a certain effect of beauty behind which one really cannot 
get to be sure of the length of the nose, or brilliancy of the 
eye. This much can be said: there was nothing in her 
that positively contradicted any assumption of beauty on 
her part, or credit of it on the part of others. She was 
very tall and very thin, with a small head, long neck, 
black eyes, and abundant straight black hair, — for which 
her hair dresser deserved more praise than she, — good 
teeth, of course, and a mouth that, even in prayer, talked 
nothing but commands; that is about all she had enfait 



GRACE ELIZABETH KING 131 

d^ornementSj as the modistes say. It may be added that 
she walked as If the Reine Salnte Foy plantation ex- 
tended over the whole earth, and the soil of it were too 
vile for her tread. 

Other books by this author are : 

" Monsieur Motte," " Tales of Time and 
Place," "The Place and the People," "Jean 
Baptlste Lemolne, Founder of New Orleans"; 
" De Soto and His Men In the Land of Florida." 



FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 

1822 — 1874 

This writer was a physician by profession, and 
wrote poetry only when the spirit moved. His 
birthplace was in Baldwin County, near Colum- 
bus, Georgia. 

In the introductory remarks by Paul Hamilton 
Hayne for the edition of Dr. Ticknor's volume of 
poetry, published in 1879, ^^ says of Ticknor: 
" He combined in his mental and moral constitu- 
tion many of the best qualities of the North and 
South. His father was a New Jerseyman, a phy- 
sician of great energy, who married into a dis- 
tinguished family of Savannah, and settled in that 
city. This father dying early in life left his widow 
with three small children to support. She re- 
moved to Columbus, in Georgia, and succeeded in 
giving her sons excellent educations. Frank Tick- 
nor studied medicine in New York and Philadel- 
phia, and soon after graduation married Miss 
Rosalie Nelson, daughter of Major F. M. Nelson, 
a distinguished soldier of the war of 1812, and 
later a prominent member of Congress. A few 
years afterwards Dr. Frank O. Ticknor purchased 

132 



FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 133 

a farm not far from Columbus, situated on the 
summit of a high hill, and celebrated by tradition 
as the scene where a desperate Indian battle had 
been fought by torch-light. For this reason the 
place was called ' Torch Hill.' The new home was 
beautifully situated, overlooking for miles the 
Chattahoochee River. Here in this beautiful 
plare Dr. Ticknor lived for nearly a quarter of a 
century, and he surrounded the home with fruits 
and flowers till it was called ' a perfect Eden of 
Roses.' " 

" Art opened to his soul," says Hayne, '* not one 
alone, but several of her fairest domains. He was 
a gifted musician, playing exquisitely on the flute, 
and was a draughtsman of readiest skill and taste. 
No more experienced doctor or successful scientist 
could be found in the country, the scene of his la- 
bors. Everybody loved him, especially the suflfer- 
Ing poor. Far and wide, among the ' Sand Bar- 
rens,' or in the neighboring farm houses, the good 
and wise physician was known and welcomed. His 
gleeful smile, his spontaneous witticisms (for his 
mind actually bubbled over with innocent humors) 
cheered up many a despondent invalid." 

Again, Paul Hamilton Hayne says of Ticknor's 
work: "Brief swallow flights of song only were 
possible to a man whose days and nights were so 
occupied." 

When the great Civil War began, Ticknor had 



134 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 

just reached the verge of middle age. His in- 
tellectual forces were in their fullest bloom; and 
so it is not surprising that many of his ablest songs 
belong to this period. 

" One lyric, associated with the war," Hayne 
says, " must appeal to many thousands still living 
with a pathos not to be resisted is ' Unknown.' " 

The prints of feet are worn away, 
No more the mourners come ; 
The voice of wail is mute to-day 
As his whose hfe is dumb. 

The world is bright with other bloom ; 
Shall the sweet summer shed 
Its living radiance o'er the tomb 
That shrouds the doubly dead? 

Unknown ! Beneath our Father's face 
The starlit hillocks lie; 
Another rosebud! lest His grace 
Forget us when we die ! 

Dr. Ticknor's poems have had countless ad- 
mirers among those who have never heard of Dr. 
Ticknor himself, and the verses are often treas- 
ured, either in memory or in scrap-books, simply as 
anonymous gems which have come from some un- 
known author. *' Frequently his poems have been 
copied into newspapers and periodicals without any 
credit marks whatever, and often public speakers. 



FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 135 

in appropriate connections, have quoted favorite 
lines and stanzas from his splendid lyrics without 
being able to tell who wrote them. To cite an 
illustration, no poem is more frequently quoted or 
more warmly admired for its rhythmic beauty and 
exquisite sentiment than ' The Virginians of the 
Valley,' and yet not one person out of ten knows 
that the poem is from the pen of Dr. Ticknor." 

When General Spotswood and his band of fol- 
lowers rode over the mountains of the Blue Ridge 
and opened the beautiful valley beyond to the set- 
tlement of the white man, the horses of the com- 
pany had to be shod for the first time after leaving 
the soft soil of the coast. Upon returning from 
this expedition, which was considered quite a brave 
one, the House of Burgesses presented these men 
small golden horseshoes. Those receiving this 
honor were considered as knighted, and in this 
poem of '' Virginians of the Valley," the poet re- 
fers to these " Golden Horseshoe Knights." 

This favorite gem was inspired by the gallantry 
of the Virginia soldiers who participated with 
Stonewall Jackson in the valley campaigns. 

THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY 

The knightliest of the knightly race 

That, since the days of old, 
Have kept the lamp of chivalry 

Alight in hearts of gold ; 



136 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 

The kindliest of the kindly band 

That, rarely hating ease, 
Yet rode with Spotswood round the land, 

And Raleigh round the seas; 

Who climbed the blue Virginian hills 

Against embattled foes, 
And planted there, in valleys fair, 

The lily and the rose! 
Whose fragrance lives In many lands, 

Whose beauty stars the earth, 
And lights the hearths of happy homes 

With loveliness and worth. 

We thought they slept! — the sons who kept 

The names of noble sires, — 
And slumbered while the darkness crept 

Around their vigil fires; 
But, aye, the " Golden Horseshoe Knights " 

Their Old Dominion keep, 
Whose foes have found enchanted ground 

But not a knight asleep ! " 

This poet wrote under the inspiration of other 
sentiments than those of chivalry, as Is shown by 
such poems as " Home." 

Bless that dear old Anglo-Saxon 
For the sounds he formed so well ; 
Little word, the nectar-waxen 
Harvest of a honey cell, / 



FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 137 

Sealing all a summer's sweetness 
In a single syllable! 
For, of all his quaint word-building, 
The queen-cell of all the comb 
Is that grand old Saxon mouthful, 
Dear old Saxon heart-ful Home. 



Another poem whose admirers are found on 
both sides of Mason and Dixon's line, which 
has often been read with tearful emotions by the 
veterans of the blue, as well as of the gray, is 
" Little Giffen of Tennessee." This poem com- 
petent critics have pronounced one of the finest 
productions of the war period of American 
literature. 

Dr. Ticknor's poems of the Civil War were the 
most popular of any written, largely because of 
their beauty and pathos, and absence of bitterness, 
for they appeal to the human heart. " With a 
heart as broad as humanity itself, and a poetic 
ability surpassed by few, Francis Orrery TIcknor 
has left one poem, a monument that will last when 
monuments of stone and clay have passed away 
and been forgotten. ' Little Giffen ' Is a mas- 
terpiece of pathos. Its perusal always touches the 
heart of the sympathetic reader. Its historical 
value Is great, too, because It pictures so typically 
the condition of the South, and Its fighting heroes 
— so many of whom were boys." 



138 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 

The story of " Little Giffen of Tennessee " was 
a true one. Isaac Giffen went into the Southern 
army a mere boy; he was terribly wounded and 
taken to the hospital at Columbus, Georgia. Here 
good Dr. Ticknor found him and took him to 
his own home, where Mrs. Ticknor's careful nurs- 
ing and the Doctor's medical skill saved him from 
death. The boy was the son of a blacksmith and 
had received no education. During convalescence 
he learned to read and write. He was anxious to 
return to the army, and was killed in some battle 
around Atlanta. 

Maurice Thompson says: "If there is a finer 
lyric than this in the whole realm of poetry, I 
should be glad to read it." 

LITTLE GIFFEN 

Out of the focal and foremost fire, 
Out of the hospital walls as dire; 
Smitten of grapeshot and gangrene, 
(Eighteenth battle and he sixteen!) 
Spectre, such as you seldom see, 
Little Giffen, of Tennessee. 

" Take him and welcome ! " the surgeon said ; 
" Little the doctor can help the dead ! " 
So we took him and brought him where 
The balm was sweet In our summer air; 
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed — 
Utter Lazarus, heel to head! 



FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 139 

And we watched the war with abated breath, — 
Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death! 
Months of torture, how many such ! 
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch ; 
And still a glint of the steel-blue eye 
Told of a spirit that wouldn't die. 

And didn't. Nay, more! in death's respite 
The cripple skeleton learned to write. 
" Dear mother " at first, of course, and then, 
" Dear Captain," inquiring about the men. 
Captain's answer: " Of eighty and five, 
Giffen and I are left alive." 

Word of gloom from the war, one day, 

Johnston pressed at the front, they say. 

Little Giffen was up and away; 

A tear — his first — as he bade good-bye, — 

Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 

" I'll write, if spared! " There was news of the fight, 

But none of Giffen — he did not write. 

I sometimes fancy that, were I king 

Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, 

With the song of the minstrel in mine ear 

And the tender legend that trembles here, 

I'd give the best on his bended knee, 

The whitest soul of my chivalry, 

For " Little Giffen," of Tennessee. 

Referring to this poem Hayne says: "The 
opening stanza is a bold swell of music, something 



140 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 

clarion like. The identical rhyme of the last 
couplet, of the first verse, one loses sight of in the 
exceeding terseness of the language, the outright 
vigor of the rhetorical stroke. Most poets dally 
with their conceptions. But this one seizes his 
idea at once, thrusts it into position of strong re- 
lief, fastens it there, and is done. Technically 
speaking, his style is dynamic." 

Of the whole poem he says: " Here there is no 
straining after effect, no floundering to get up a 
foam; but that sturdy art which is the spirit of a 
genuine popular ballad." 

Of another poem, " Loyal," Hayne says: " It is 
an absolutely perfect ballad. Was ever the his- 
torical incident it commemorates more feelingly 
and vividly described? " 

Some of Ticknor's war poems in addition to 
those previously mentioned are as follows: "The 
Sword of Raphael Semmes," " Loyal," " Albert 
Sidney Johnston," " Virginia," " Georgia and 
Lee." Among other poems are " Lady Alice," 
" Rosalie," and " Mary." His poems were col- 
lected and published by Miss Kate Mason Roland, 
of Richmond, in 1879. 



ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 

1838 — ^1900 

Mrs. Bellamy belonged to the Croon family 
of North Carolina, and before the war she married 
her cousin, Dr. Charles Bellamy. She was edu- 
cated in Philadelphia at Pelham Priory, was a fine 
musician and linguist and a most excellent English 
scholar. She lost husband and children in the Civil 
War and was compelled to write for a living. She 
wrote for " Appleton's Magazine " and was a con- 
tributor of short stories for " The Cycle," pub- 
lished In Mobile. She also gave private lessons In 
English and other languages. Amelie Rives, the 
novelist, was one of her pupils. Mrs. Bellamy 
first wrote under the nom de plume of " Kamba 
Thorpe." Among her works are " Four Oaks," 
*' Little Johanna," and a dialect story, " Old Man 
Gilbert." 

OLD MAN GILBERT 

Colonel Thorpe was in his office, as a separate small 
building was called In which he transacted all kinds of 
business. Apparently he was unoccupied when old Gil- 
bert entered, for he sat In his leather-covered armchair 

141 



142 ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 

stroking his beard and staring at the fire. But he thrust 
aside his musings when he heard old Gilbert's familiar 
salutation, and said with an effort at gayety: 

** Well, old man, what foolishness are you up to now? " 

*' Hit's business, Mawster, if you please, suh, dis time," 
old Gilbert made answer, twirling his hat, by way of re- 
lief to his embarrassment. *' Ise been studyin' on a trade 
ef you'd gib yo' cawnsent, suh." 

"Well?" 

" Dot ole white mule, Zip, suh. I wuz studyin' det 
you mought be minded to tak sixty dollars fur him, he is 
a old mule." 

"What! have you saved up sixty dollars?" exclaimed 
the Colonel. " And you want to buy old Zip and then 
feed him on my corn and fodder, eh ? " 

" You wouldn't miss what he'd eat, suh, nur nary 
nuther mule," old Gilbert said, deprecatingly, uncon- 
scious of the comparison he had made, but which the 
Colonel perceived and smiled at grimly. 

" I don't see what you want with the mule ! " he said. 
" Old Brandy and the ox-cart about belong to you now." 

" Ole Brandy an' de yox-cart ain't so servisable fur 
plowin'," Gilbert explained. 

" I don't want your money," said the Colonel shortly. 
*' You can take the mule any time you may need him," 
the Colonel added, and he repeated: " I don't want your 
money." 

" Tankee, tankee, Mawster, tankee, suh," old Gilbert 
responded, but there was disappointment in his tone. He 
lingered an instant, as if he meant to say more, then 
turned and went his shambling way out of the office. 
When he had gone down the steps he looked back to say: 



ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 143 

" Ain't I heard you tell de oberseer that Zip is wuth 
'bout sixty dollars?" 

*' I suppose he may be worth about that," the Colonel 
answered absently. 

It wanted now but a few days of Christmas, which the 
Colonel desired to celebrate just as usual. The turkeys 
long had been fattening, the beef was killed, the bonfires 
piled ready for lighting. If his son Nicolas's absence was 
felt, no one alluded to it. 

On Christmas morning the Hill resounded with pop- 
ping of fire crackers, the shooting of Christmas guns, and 
repeated shouts in every variety of tone. " Christmas gif, 
Mawster; Christmas gif, Missie Virey, Christmas gif, 
Missie." 

In the afternoon of the second day Glory Ann took 
occasion to ask: 

" Missie Virey, is you sont ole man Gilbert of¥ any 
whey." 

" Where should I be sending him? " said Miss Elvira. 

" Dun-no me," Glory Ann answered with mystery. 
" Maybe hit's Mawster is sont 'im." 

Old Gilbert had been absent since the morning after 
Christmas. His cabin was locked, and there was no 
smoke in his chimney. 

When the matter was investigated farther, it was 
found that the old white mule. Zip, was missing likewise. 
The Colonel received this information with a stare at 
first, and then burst out laughing, though no one knew 
why he laughed. 

The Colonel going into his office one morning was sur- 



144 ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 

prised to find on his table an uncouth package wrapped in 
a piece of cloth, and tied with a length of twine multi- 
tudinously knotted. When this was opened, there revealed 
a quantity of coin to the amount of sixty dollars! The 
Colonel's stern features relaxed into a pathetic smile. This 
was the price of the old white mule, but how it came there 
on his table was a problem he made no attempt to solve. 
Carefully he tied the money up again, and locked it away 
in a drawer of his big mahogany secretary against a day 
of reckoning, a day more distant than he dreamed. 

Farther on in this beautiful plantation story we 
learn that old Gilbert, with noble purpose, had 
stolen away on old Zip, and that after much effort 
and many dangers the faithful slave, with that 
wonderful devotion, the offspring of slavery, had 
found and brought back to the plantation the lost 
and erring boy — and that the Colonel was most 
deeply touched by this devotion, and still could 
not suppress a tender smile as he handed back to 
old Gilbert his sixty dollars carefully tied up in the 
same piece of cotton cloth. 

The following beautiful description is from 
''Four Oaks": 

There is an old tomb in the garden where Anthony 
Fletcher lies buried, but his name is otherwise perpetuated 
in Netherford by the great bell of St. Botolf's, which was 
his gift. The sexton of St. Botolf's was once gardener of 
Four Oaks, and from him the bell received the name of 



ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 145 

Lonely Tony, a quaint tribute to its old master. Super- 
stitution had infested Four Oaks with g;hostly terrors, and 
the children of Netherford have a fancy that Lonely Tony 
is a prisoner in the church tower, living on the pigeons 
that build in the belfry, and suffering untold torture at 
the hands of the sexton. Fanning avenue begins at the 
corner where stands the church, and leads between over- 
arching trees to a stately edifice fronting the south. Here 
in days gone by lived Jacob Fanning. He it was who 
planted the trees which shade the avenue, and he it was 
who raised the sidewalk of his avenue in imitation of the 
terraces on the main way. 



JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 

1823— 1873 

John Reuben Thompso-n was born In Rich- 
mond October 23, 1823, and died in New York 
April 30, 1873, and was buried in Hollywood 
Cemetery, Richmond. After a course of training 
in his native city, and another at a preparatory 
school in East Haven, Conn., he entered the 
academic department of the University of Vir- 
ginia, graduating in its law school In 1844. So 
decided was his leaning toward letters that even 
during his two years' practice of law he contributed 
both prose and verse to Northern and Southern 
periodicals, and in 1847 closed with an offer of the 
editorship of " The Southern Literary Mes- 
senger," a journal published in Richmond, and the 
South to-day owes a debt of gratitude to John R. 
Thompson. Nor is the North free of some in- 
debtedness, for " The Reveries of a Bachelor '* 
first appeared in the pages of the " Messenger." 
Many of the poems of Poe and his " Critical 
Essays " were published here, and Park Benjamin, 
Mrs. Evans, Mrs. Osgood, J. M. Legare, R. H. 
Stoddard, Paul H. Hayne, Margaret Junkin 

146 



/v 



JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 147 

Preston, Lieutenant Maury and many other excel- 
lent writers contributed to this old Southern maga- 
zine. 

In 1854 Thompson made his first trip abroad, 
expanding his own mind by contact with the mas- 
ter minds of England, and forming what proved 
to be lasting friendships with Dickens, Bulwer, 
Macaulay, the Brownings, Thackeray, Tennyson 
and Carlyle. A series of sketches of foreign travel 
that gave new zest to the pages of the " Messen- 
ger " was one of the outcomes of this sojourn. 

These sketches, with revisions and additions, 
were collected in a volume entitled " Across the 
Atlantic." It had been consigned to the binders in 
the publishing house of Derby & Jackson, New 
York, when the building took fire and the edition 
was destroyed. 

Upon his return to America, resuming control 
of the " Messenger," Thompson contributed to 
Northern magazines, recited original poems be- 
fore literary societies and delivered a series of 
lectures in the principal cities of the South, notable 
among which lectures were those upon " European 
Journalism " and the " Life and Genius of Poe." 

In i860 he resigned his position upon the 
" Messenger " to accept the more remunerative 
one of editor of the " Southern Field and Fire- 
side," published in Augusta, Georgia. 

A year later the war recalled him to Virginia, 



148 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 

and debarred by a constitutional malady from en- 
listing in her defense, his loyalty expressed itself 
writing patriotic verse, and in prose works. He 
wrote unremittingly for the daily and weekly press, 
his patriotism inspiring those poems, " Coercion," 
" On to Richmond," " England's Neutrahty," " A 
Word to the West," " Ashby," " The Burial of 
Latane," and the " Death of Stuart," praise of 
which echoed across the Atlantic. 

Meanwhile his fatal disease made rapid prog- 
ress, and in 1864, when he went to England for 
his health, he was carried in the arms of friends on 
board the blockade runner which conveyed him. 
It was feared that he might not live to reach his 
destination, but the sea air revived him, and he im- 
proved sufficiently to take a position on the edi- 
torial staff of " The Index," the official organ of 
the Confederacy in London. He also sent weekly 
letters to the " Louisville Courier-Journal," and 
wrote leaders every week for the " London Stand- 
ard," a connection with which, as its American 
correspondent, he maintained until his death. 

He contributed, too, to the '' New Orleans 
Picayune " and " Crescent." He made flying trips 
to Scotland even after the fall of the Confederacy, 
which ended for the time his regular newspaper 
connections, but he continued eighteen months in 
London, preparing for " Blackwood's," from Von 
Borcke's notes, an account of that officer's experi- 



JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 149 

ence as chief of the cavalry corps of the Army of 
Northern Virginia. 

Upon his return to America, in 1866, he settled 
in New York, where he was briefly associated with 
William Young, formerly editor of the " Albion," 
in the publication of " Every Afternoon." 

While Thompson published no books, yet his 
writings were widely known and exerted great in- 
fluence on the literature of the South. Few poems 
have been more widely read since the Civil War 
than: 

" MUSIC IN CAMP " 

Two armies covered hill and plain, 

Where Rappahannock's waters 
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 

Of battles' recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure, 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its hid embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, It made 

No forest leaf to quiver, 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now, where circling hills looked down, 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 



150 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 

When on the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender; 

The music seemed itself aflame 
With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble. 

Had just struck up, with flute and horn, 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks. 

Till, margined by its pebbles. 
One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 

And one was gray with " Rebels." 

Then all was still, and then the band, 
With movement light and tricksy, 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand. 
Reverberate with " Dixie." 

The conscious stream with burnished glow 
Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
With yelling of the " Rebels." 

Again a pause, and then again 
The trumpets pealed sonorous. 

And " Yankee Doodle " was the strain 
To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew, 

To kiss the shining pebbles; 
Loud shrieked the swarming "Boys in Blue " 

Defiance to the " Rebels." 



JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 151 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; 

All silent novi^ the " Yankees " stood, 
And silent stood the " Rebels." 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing, 
So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had stirred 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold, or warm, his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him; 
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 

His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art. 

Expressed in simplest numbers, 
Subdued the sternest " Yankee's " heart, 

Made light the " Rebel's " slumbers. 



152 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 

And fair the form of music shines, 
That bright celestial creature, 

Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines, 
Gave this one touch of Nature. 



CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 
1816— 1887 

This gifted lady was the daughter of Major 
Nathaniel A. Ware of Natchez, at one time Secre- 
tary of State of Mississippi. His wife was grand- 
daughter of Captain Charles Percy, of the British 
Navy, who settled finally on a grant of land con- 
ferred upon him. His estate lay near Fort 
Adams. He was widely known and left valuable 
possessions to his family. 

After his marriage Major Ware resided at their 
country seat near Natchez. They had two chil- 
dren, the elder, Catherine, being born in 18 16. In 
order the better to conduct the education of his 
children Major Ware, after the death of his wife, 
sold his plantation and moved to Philadelphia. 
Constant companionship with her father, a man 
of trained intellect, developed in Catherine poetic 
fancy and turned her mind into the channel of 
authorship. 

Early in life she married Elisha Warfield of 
Lexington, Kentucky, a gentleman of fine family. 
In 1857 th^y rnoved to a country home near Louis- 
ville, Kentucky. About her earliest attempt at 

153 



154 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 

authorship was a book written by herself and sis- 
ter, called " The Wife of Leon and Other 
Stories." In 1846 they published a new collection 
of pieces entitled '' The Indian Chamber and 
Other Poems." Both these books show strong 
powers in embryo, and one sees progress soon in 
depth, range and construction. 

Later, as the years passed, the younger sister 
died and Mrs. Warfield pursued her literary work 
alone. A number of poems, " The Romance of 
Beauseincourt," and several other novels came 
from her pen, one among the most noted being 
" The Household of Bouverie." " It was consid- 
ered a novel great in conception and masterly 
in execution. The story is bold, sharp, live, mag- 
netic. Several scenes in the mysterious cham- 
ber, the interviews between Lilian and Erastus 
Bouverie, with their pungent pre-Raphaelite de- 
tails, are pictures which, having once burned their 
way into the brain, can never be forgotten. The 
quaintness and originality remind one of Haw- 
thorne." 

THE HOUSE OF BOUVERIE 

My grandfather's spacious bedroom, ending in a half- 
octagon, formed a central projection from the rear of 
the building. Three doors opened into this apartment 
from the sides that joined the house, and presented a 
stiff array, separated as they were by wide panels lined 



CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 155 

with windows. The central door opened with leaves into 
a square or, rather, oblong hall; the others, narrowed, 
and of simpler construction, gave into three rooms, evi- 
dently partitioned from the hall for convenience rather 
than symmetry, since the effect to the eye must have 
been far more liberal when the passage swept across the 
house, as I knew afterward it had originally done. One 
of these chambers, some twelve feet square only, yet 
lofty and well-ventilated, had been fitted up for me with 
a care and taste that left nothing to regret, even when I 
compared it with the comfort and luxury of my former 
home. That which I supposed to correspond with it on 
the other side was kept strictly locked ; and at first I con- 
ceived it to be my grandmother's oratory — recalling that 
of the mistress of Taunton Tower — or study, perhaps, 
where books and paintings, sacred to her eye alone, were 
cautiously concealed, as I had heard was the custom 
among the authors and artists of the world. 

But my grandmother, I soon discovered, was neither 
the one nor the other; and when I found how simple and 
even homely were the details of her everyday life, I de- 
scended from my pedestal of fancy, and determined that 
this " Blue-Beard chamber," so mysterious and inaccessible 
to me, was nothing more than a shy woman's dressing 
room. A deep reticence of nature seemed to underlie, in a 
very remarkable degree, the sparkling cordiality of my 
grandmother's manner. You stumbled on this constitu- 
tional or habitual reserve, accidentally sometimes, as you 
might do on a stone hid in a bed of flowers, and with 
something of the same sharp, sudden anguish ; but I am 
digressing to speak of this now. I wish to give at once, 
for reasons that will be plainer hereafter, as correct an 



156 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 

idea as I know how to convey by words of the construc- 
tion of the house of Bouverie. 

• • • • • 

I understood later how it was that after her husband's 
death — one of violence and horror, it was whispered — 
my grandmother had cut off all communication with those 
upper rooms which he had chiefly inhabited, associated in 
her mind as they were with bloodshed and self-slaughter, 
and how, as the dark legend crept stealthily around, that 
night after night he might still be heard walking their 
floors, and had even been seen descending the spiral stairs 
that linked one circular hall with the other, while the 
moon shone down through the great skylight, revealing 
to the startled watchers his ghastly lineaments and spec- 
tral form — she had in the desperation of her fear and 
agony, sealed up forever those haunted and accursed cham- 
bers. For this purpose the stairway had been removed, 
and the space between the two halls floored and sealed. 
This was done with an expedition that made food for 
conjecture in the neighborhood, having its origin, doubt- 
less, in the almost frenzied terror of her own sensations, 
that caused her to spare neither expense nor urgency to 
have her alterations executed with dispatch. The work- 
men who performed the task were summoned from a dis- 
tant town, and spoke a foreign tongue. They came and 
went like shadows; and in this manner she evaded, as 
much as possible, the neighborhood gossip and espionage 
which must otherwise have so annoyed her in her crushed 
condition. For, at the time all this was done, my grand- 
father's fearful death was recent; and the same artisans 
who removed the staircase, sealed away from sight and 
access those abhorred upper apartments, placed the sim- 



CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 157 

pie marble obelisk which bore his name above his grave 
in the cedar grove. *' Not one article was touched or 
brought away, Miss Lilian, that ever belonged to him," 
added my informant in low, whispered tones, the old, 
demure, yet gossiping woman who assisted at my toilet, 
and who had lived with my grandmother and cared for 
her ever since her birth; — " not one article, lest a curse 
might cleave to it and fall on us; and still he may be 
heard at times — -don't be frightened. Miss Lilian! — walk- 
ing, walking, the livelong night, the livelong day even, 
as though no rest were granted him, in the other world, 
who took no rest in this." 

I had hidden my face on Dame Bianca's arm as she pro- 
ceeded in her vague narration, thrilled by a momentary 
terror. Now I looked up and was annoyed by the ex- 
pression of her countenance, as my sudden glance fell 
on it. 

" She is trying to fool me," I thought, " with this 
ghost story, and to make a coward of me, but I know 
there is nothing of the kind." And nerved by this sudden 
conviction, I proceeded to question her with more cool- 
ness and sagacity than she could have expected from one 
evidently so impressed with her narration a moment be- 
fore. 

" What made my grandfather so restless. Dame Bi- 
anca?" I asked. "Was he unhappy and wicked, or 
only busy? " 

" Ah, child ! all — wretched enough, I daresay, when 
he stopped to think of his misdeeds, and always busy as 
any working-bee in summer time. Busy with hand and 
brain, with pen and sword, with drug and pistol, read- 
ing and thinking, plotting and contriving, and trampling 



158 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 

over every one that stood in his way w^ithout mercy or 
fear." 

• • • • • 

It was on the day after my arrival that, sitting at the 
supper table, during a long pause in the conversation, 
while my grandmother was especially engaged with her 
coffee-urn, I was shaken by one of those unreasonable 
fits of laughter common to excitable children. 

"What amuses you, Lilian?" asked Dr. Quintil. 
" Come, give us your merry thought, and we will pluck it 
together." 

" Oh, Dr. Quintil, I was thinking how funny it was — 
and I never thought of it till this minute, which makes 
it funnier still — ^that my Uncle Jasper has never spoken 
one word to me since I came to Bouverie! Not one 
word, Mr. Jasper, have you said to your niece since 
she came to live with you, either for good or bad," 
and I shook my finger playfully at him across the 
table. 

He gazed at me a moment earnestly, and then suffered 
his forehead to droop into his hands. Had I offended 
him ? I looked anxiously at Dr. Quintil ; he, too, was 
pale and grave, and averted his eyes from mine. My 
grandmother alone retained her self-possession. 

" My child," she said, " in this house above all others, 
learn to be discreet. It is our misfortune to be an af- 
flicted household — Jasper has never spoken." 

I dropped the untasted food, and, in a passion of grief 
and mortification, I slid from the table, and lay with 
my face on the floor. I was raised by kindly hands. 
Jasper held me in his arms. 

" Oh, what have I done! " I said. " I did not know — 



CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 159 

Indeed I did not know — that one might hear and still be 
dumb. Poor Uncle Jasper! Can you forgive me? " 

Words never spoke as his eyes spoke to me then. I 
have since believed that in the spirit world there will be 
no need of speech, but that light, shining from each heav- 
enly visage, shall reveal whatever the immortal essence 
seeks to communicate, and words be put away with other 
bonds of the flesh. He held me to his bosom long, for 
my feelings, when once vividly aroused, were not easily 
consoled to quiet again ; and they told me that on that 
home of peace I sobbed myself to rest. 

Jasper — my Jasper — ^from that hour I loved thee as 
entirely as I shall do when we meet at the feet of God! 



IRWIN RUSSELL 

1853— 1879 

This poet was born in Port Gibson, Mississippi, 
and was among the first of Southern writers to 
recognize the possibilities of negro dialect and 
character in poetry and fiction, and to picture in 
poetry the unique relation between the Southern 
slave and his master. 

It is not surprising that there is very little gen- 
eral knowledge of this gifted man, for he passed 
away quickly, after a brief struggle with life, leav- 
ing only one collection of poems, which was pub- 
lished after his death. 

Irwin Russell's grandfather was a Virginian, 
but moved West to Ohio, in which State the father 
of Irwin was born and lived. He married a New 
York lady, and then going South, settled in Port 
Gibson, where Irwin and two other children were 
born. At the outbreak of the Civil War, Russell's 
father cast his lot with the Confederacy, and after 
the war ended the son Irwin was sent to the St. 
Louis University in St. Louis, a school conducted 
by Jesuit Fathers. Here he became a diligent stu- 
dent, and his young friends called him a " walking 

160 



IRWIN RUSSELL i6i 

encyclopedia." He also gave evidence of fine 
mathematical powers. 

After graduation he returned to Mississippi, 
studied and practiced law. He was in Port Gibson 
during the yellow fever epidemic, in 1878, and he 
remained through the whole dreadful tragedy of 
sickness, and served as a devoted nurse. He 
never fully rallied from the fearful strain and the 
harrowing scenes through which he passed, " for 
he was," says W. M. Baskerville, " that rare 
union of bright mind with frail body, through 
which the keenest appreciation and most exquisite 
sensibility are developed." 

His father, Dr. William Russell, who had also 
remained in Port Gibson during the scourge, stay- 
ing nobly at his post of duty, sank under the labor 
and died. This left young Russell entirely de- 
pendent upon himself. 

Joel Chandler Harris says : " Russell always 
had warm personal friends from whom he could 
command everything that affection could suggest." 

Going to New York, Irwin Russell took some 
literary matter to the publishing house of Charles 
Scribner & Sons, who received him with great per- 
sonal kindness. 

He became very ill with fever In New York, and 
before he was entirely recovered he worked his 
passage on a boat back to New Orleans, where he 
landed almost without money. He applied for 



1 62 IRWIN RUSSELL 

work at " The Times " office of that city, obtained 
employment, and later became connected with the 
paper. 

For one so young, Russell gave remarkable evi- 
dence of training in the best of literature. He was 
capable of hard, painstaking study, and his insight 
into the peculiarities, pathos, and poetry in the 
negro character was truly wonderful. 

Thomas Nelson Page says of him: " Personally 
I owe him much. It was the light of his genius 
shining through his dialect poems that led my feet 
in the direction I have since tried to follow," and 
Dr. C. A. Smith says: "The appearance of 
' Christmas Night in the Quarters ' meant that 
Southern literature has now become a true repro- 
duction of Southern conditions." 

Joel Chandler Harris says: " Irwin Russell's 
negro character studies rise to the level of what in 
a large way we term literature. I do not know 
where there could be a more perfect representation 
of negro character. His operetta ' Christmas 
in the Quarters ' is inimitable." 

Beginning with the arrival of the negroes who 
come to " Uncle Johnny Booker's Ball " the poem, 
" Christmas Night in the Quarters," says: 

That through the din one hardly hears 

Old fiddling 'Josey sound his A, 
Correct the pitch, begin to play. 

Then the dance commences. 



IRWIN RUSSELL 163 

Git yo' pardners, fust kwatillion ; 

Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high; 
Tune is, ' Oh, that water-million ; 

Gwine to git to home bime-by.' " 



As daylight approaches, the tired dancers call 
for a song from old Booker, who with his banjo 
sings the legend of the origin of that Instrument. 
Repeating the story of the Ark, Uncle Booker 
says: " Ham got lonesome," 

An' so fur amuse he-self, he steamed some wood an' bent 

it, 
An' soon he had a banjo made, de fust that was invented. 
He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, 

'Twas " Neber min' the wedder " ; 
She seem like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; 
Some went to pattin', some to dancin', Noah called the 

figgers ; 
An' Ham he sot and knocked de tune, 
De happiest ob niggers. 

Russell declared the pathos and humor In the 
character of the real old-fashioned negro of the 
South afforded an Inexhaustible amount of material 
for both prose and poetry. 

Like Sidney Lanier, Russell was passionately 
fond of music and became a remarkably skilful 
performer on the banjo. 

Irwin Russell died at the early age of twenty- 



1 64 IRWIN RUSSELL 

six. Suffering and sorrow and poverty were his 
till the last. The brief struggle ended In New 
Orleans, and the beautiful contributions to South- 
ern dialect poetry remain our heritage. Works: 
'' Dialect Poems." 

Irwin Russell himself tells why he could so 
faithfully reproduce the life and feelings of the 
negro In the following quotation: 

You couldn't talk so natchel 

'Bout de niggers' sorrows an' joys 
Widouten you'd had a black mammy 

To sing to you long is youse a boy. 

Regarding the merits of Irwin Russell's verses 
one critic says: " It seems to me that his poems 
are to negro dialect what Gottschalk's music Is to 
negro melody. They have all a swinging gait, and 
you can hear the rhythmical pattering of the feet, 
and see the swaying of the darky figures In the 
' walk-round ' as you read : 

CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 

Git yo' pardners, fust kwatillion ! 

Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high ; 
Tune is, " Oh, dat water-million ! 

Gwine to git to home bime-bye." 
S'lute yo' pardners! — scrape perlitely — 

Don't be bumpin' 'gin de res' — 



IRWIN RUSSELL 165 

Balance all! now, step out rightly; 

Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'. 
Fo'wa'd foah! Whoop up, niggers! 

Back ag'in ! — don't be so slow ! — 
Swing cornahs! — min' de figgers! 

When I hollers, den yo' go. 
Top ladies cross ober! 

• • • ■ • 

Hands around — hoi' up yo' faces; 

Don't be lookin' at yo' feet ! 
Swing yo' pardners to yo' places! 

Dat's de way — 'dat's hard to beat. 
Sides fo'wa'd! — ^when you's ready — 

Make a bow as low's you kin ! 
Swing acrost wid opp'site lady! 

Now we'll let you swap ag'in: 
Ladies change! — shet up dat talkin'; 

Do yo' talkin' arter while! 
Right an' lef ' ! — don't want no walkin' — ■ 

Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style! 

BLIND NED 

Who is dat ar a-playin' ? Shucks ! I wish I wuzn't blin' ; 
But when de Lord he tuk my eyes, he lef my yeahs be- 

hin'. 
Is dat you, Mahsr Bob? I t'ought I rec'nized your 

bowin' ; 
I said I knowed 'twas you, soon's I heered de fiddle goin'. 

Sho! dat ain't right! Jes' le' me show you how to play 
dat tune; 



1 66 IRWIN RUSSELL 

I feel like I could make de fiddle talk dis arternoon. 
Now don't you see that counter's jes' a leetle bit too high? 
Well, nebber min', I guess you'll learn to tune her by 
an' by. 

You's jes' like all musicianers dat learns to play by note; 
You ain't got music in you, so you has to hab it wrote. 
Now dat ain't science — ^why de debbil don't you play by 

yeah? 
For dat's de onlies' kin' ob music fittin' fur to heah. 

Do you suppose, when David wuz a-pickin' on de harp. 
He ebber knowed de difference atwixt a flat an' a sharp? 
But any tune you called for, he could pick it all de same, 
For David knowed de music, dough he didn't know de 
name. 

Now what shall I begin on? Somefin' lively, fas', and 

quick ? 
Well, sah, jes' pay attention, an' I'll gib you " Cap'n 

Dick." 
Yah! yah! young mahsr, don't you feel jes' like you want 

to pat? 
You'll hab to practice fur a while afore you ekals dat ! 

Dere ain't nobody 'roun' dis place kin play wid Uncle 

Ned; 
Dey isn't got it in deir fingers, neider in deir head ; 
Dat fiddler Bill dey talks about — I heered him play a 

piece, 
An' I declar' it sounded like a fox among de geese. 



IRWIN RUSSELL 167 

A violeen Is like an 'ooman, mighty hard to guide, 
An' mighty hard to keep in order after once it's buyed. 
Dere's alluz somefin' 'bout it out ob kelter, more or less, 
An' 'tain't de fancies'-lookin' ones dat alluz does de bes'. 

Dis ye's a splendid inst'ument — ^I 'spec' it cost a heap; 
You r'al'y ought to let me hab dis fiddle fur to keep. 
It ain't no use to you, sah; fur, widout it's in de man. 
He cain't git music out de fines' fiddle in de Ian'. 

Well, good-bye, Mahsr Bob, sah; when you's nuffin else 

to do, 
Jes' sen' fur dis ol' darky, an' he'll come an' play fur you ; 
An' don't gib up your practicin' — you's only sebenteen, 
An' maybe when you's ol' as me you'll play the violeen 

By permission of Miss Mary Russell and Century Co.j 
'New York. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 
1844 

The " Land of the Creole " Is the name some- 
times given to lower Louisiana, and here in the 
cosmopolitan city of New Orleans was born the 
subject of this sketch. On his father's side he Is 
descended from an old colonial family of Virginia, 
the Cabells. The name was originally spelled 
Cable, and their coat-of-arms introduces the cable 
upon its design. 

Cable's maternal ancestors were from New Eng- 
land. His parents were married in Indiana, and 
came to New Orleans to live. The father died in 
1859, leaving the family in very straitened circum- 
stances. George W. Cable, then only fourteen 
years old, had to leave school just as he was about 
to graduate, in order to accept a clerkship which 
would enable him to support the family. 

At the beginning of the Civil War Cable entered 
the army, although only a youth, serving in Col- 
onel Wilburn's Fourth Mississippi Cavalry of 
General Wirt Adams' brigade. Army comrades 
speak of the young volunteer as being a good sol- 
dier, scrupulously observant of discipline, always 

168 



GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE ibg 

at his post of duty, and courageous and daring. In 
one engagement he received a serious wound in the 
left arm, and narrowly escaped being killed. The 
close of the war found him without a dollar, and 
he began work in New Orleans as an errand boy, 
and then was promoted to a clerkship. Through 
all this arduous and uncongenial labor. Cable was 
untiring in effort to acquire an education. He be- 
gan his first literary work writing for the " New 
Orleans Picayune," over the name of " Drop 
Shot," and after a time he became one of the edi- 
torial staff of this fine old paper. From religious 
scruples he refused to report entertainments, 
thereby losing his position, but he soon obtained a 
situation as accountant with a firm of cotton fac- 
tors. Mr. Cable jotted down, while at his desk, 
busy with invoices and figures, every incident and 
conceit that came with his intercourse among men 
of all classes, and from stray bits of Creole life; 
thus developing his rare talent for insight into 
human character and motive. About this time he 
wrote " The Belles Damoiselle Plantation," 
'' Tite Polite," " Jean ah Poquelin," " Cafe des 
Exiles," and " Madame Delicieuse." These 
early stories made a revelation of two facts — that 
there was a wonderful and new field of romance 
In Creole life and dialect, and that Cable could 
tell a story well. 

" In ' Madame Delphine,' which was published 



I70 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 

in 1 88 1, we see a perfect specimen of this writer's 
art in literary construction. The narrative is 
handled so skilfully that the reader is unaware of 
its utter impossibility." 

" Dr. Sevier " is a beautiful story of great lit- 
erary merit, with the added grace of simplicity. 
In the experiences of John Richling it has been 
said that Mr. Cable, in some measure, gave his 
own history. There was this difference be- 
tween the writer and his hero, John Richling: the 
former made a success of whatever he attempted, 
while in the story, poor Richling was a failure. 
The writer who could describe Ristofalo with his 
happy disregard of trouble, Narcisse, " dear, de- 
licious, abominable Narcisse," and Mary, bright, 
brave and loving, and Dr. Sevier, the physician, 
noble, generous and capable, yet tender as a 
woman, was certainly a master in the realms of 
fiction. 

Some of Mr. Cable's later works have received 
much criticism from the South, but the beauty of 
his other writings remains untarnished. He now 
lives near Northampton, Massachusetts. Here he 
indulges his tastes for birds, flowers and trees. 
Tree culture is one of his hobbies, and with quaint 
idea he has trees planted by well-known friends 
and guests and named after them, for instance: 
The Beecher Elm; the Max O'Rell Ash; the 
Conan Doyle Maple. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 171 

His best known works are: "Old Creole 
Days," " The Grandissimes," " Madame Del- 
phine," " The Creoles of Louisiana," " Dr. 
Sevier," "The Silent South," " Bonaventure,'' 
" The Negro Question," " Strange True Stories 
of Louisiana," " John March, Southerner," 
"Strong Hearts," "The Cavalier," '' Bylow 
Hill." 

Henrietta Christian Wright says: " ' The Gran- 
dissimes ' made Cable famous, although it elicited 
much adverse criticism from readers who denied 
Its truthfulness as a picture of old Creole days, 
yet It must be considered one of the best works of 
fiction In the South. It has been followed by in- 
numerable transcriptions of Southern life from 
other hands, but to the author of ' Grandis- 
simes ' must always remain the credit of being 
the pioneer in the fascinating world of Creole 
romance." 

To the Acadian settlements In the lower Lou- 
isiana prairies Mr. Cable went for Inspiration for 
his novel " Bonaventure." The hero, Bonaven- 
ture, was an orphan boy, who was being brought 
up by the village cure. This was the first time 
since Longfellow wrote " Evangeline " that the 
story and character of the Acadlans were again 
used for romance In literature. Mr. Cable spent 
much time hunting among old records and his- 
torical documents, newspapers and government 



172 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 

reports, and sifted out material for his articles 
called " The Creoles of Louisiana." 

This selection from " Au Large " is a descrip- 
tion of Nature in a " transport of passion," and 
then in her hour of calmness. Mr. Cable closes 
the extract with fine psychological thought. 

"AU LARGE" 

Soon the stars are hidden. A light breeze seems rather 
to tremble and hang poised than to blow. The rolling 
clouds, the dark wilderness, and the watery waste shine 
every moment in the wide gleam of lightnings still hidden 
by the wood, and are wrapped again in ever-thickening 
darkness, over which thunders roll and jar and answer 
one another across the sky. Then, like a charge of ten 
thousand lancers, come the wind and the rain, their onset 
covered by all the artillery of heaven. The lightnings 
leap, hiss, and blaze; the thunders crack and roar; the 
rain lashes ; the waters writhe ; the wind smites and 
howls. For five, for ten, for twenty minutes — for an 
hour, for two hours — the sky and the flood are never 
for an instant wholly dark, or the thunder for one mo- 
ment silent; but while the universal roar sinks and swells 
and the wide, vibrant illumination shows all things in 
ghostly half-concealment, fresh floods of lightning every 
moment rend the dim curtain and leap forth ; the glare 
of day falls upon the swaying wood, the reeling, bowing, 
tossing willows, the seething waters, the whirling rain, 
and in the midst the small form of the distressed steamer, 
her revolving paddle-wheels toiling behind to lighten the 



GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 173 

strain upon her anchor chains; then all are dim ghosts 
again, while a peal, as if the heavens were rent, rolls off 
around the sky, comes back in shocks and throbs, and 
sinks in a long roar that, before it can die, is swallowed 
up in the next flash and peal. 

A few hours later the winds were still, the stars were 
out, a sweet silence had fallen upon water and wood, 
and from her deck the watchman on the steamer could 
see in the northeastern sky a broad, soft illumination, and 
knew it was the lights of slumbering New Orleans, eight- 
een miles away. By and by, farther to the east, another 
brightness began to grow and gather this light into its 
outstretched wings. In the nearest wood a soft twitter 
came from a single tiny bird. Another voice answered 
ft. A different note came from a third quarter; there 
were three or four replies; the sky turned to blue and 
began to flush; a mocking-bird flew out of the woods on 
her earliest quest for family provisions; and a thrush 
began to sing, and in a moment more the whole forest 
was one choir. 

What wonderful purity was in the fragrant air; what 
color was on the calm waters and in the deep sky; how 
beautiful, how gentle was Nature after her transport of 
passion! Shall we ever subdue her and make her always 
submissive and compliant? Who knows? Who knows 
what man may do with her when once he has got self, 
the universal self, under perfect mastery? See yonder 
huge bull-alligator swimming hitherward out of the 
swamp! Even as you point he turns again in alarm and 
is gone. Once he was man's terror. Leviathan. The very 
lions of Africa and the grizzlies of the Rockies, so they 
tell us, are no longer the bold enemies of man they once 



174 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 

were. "Subdue the earth! " It is being done. Science 
and art, commerce and exploration, are but parts of re- 
ligion. Help us, brothers all, with every possible discov- 
ery and invention to complete the conquest begun in that 
lost garden whence man and woman first came forth, not 
for vengeance, but for love, to bruise the serpent's head. 
But as yet both within us and without us, what terrible 
revolt doth Nature make! What awful victories doth 
she have over us, and then turn and bless and serve us 
again. . . . 

By permission of author. 



HENRY TIMROD 

1829 — 1867 

This noted writer was a descendant of an old 
German family, and was born in Charleston, South 
Carolina. His father, William Henry Timrod, 
who held, with distinction, many positions of 
honor, was married to a Miss Prince and died 
from exposure during the Florida War with the 
Seminole Indians. This father, with German thrift 
and tenacity of purpose, " voluntarily apprenticed 
himself to a book-binder in order to have plenty 
of books to read." Henry Timrod inherited his 
father's love of books and his determination of 
character. He entered the University of Georgia, 
but extreme poverty prevented him from finishing 
the course of study. However, not discouraged 
by his lack of money, he returned to Charleston 
with the intention of studying law, which soon be- 
came distasteful to him. He then endeavored to 
prepare for a college professorship, but failing in 
this, he turned his attention to writing and jour- 
nalism, in the meantime supporting himself by 
teaching in private families. He taught for ten 
years. 

175 



176 HENRY TIM ROD 

His first book of poems, published in Boston 
in i860, was cordially received in the United 
States and would have been published in London 
had it not been for the " turmoil of civil strife " 
at that time. With heart aflame with loyalty to 
his State, Timrod voluntereed as a private in the 
Southern army, and during this time he wrote 
" Carolina," " The Cotton Ball," and " The Call 
to Arms," poems that did much to influence the 
people of South Carolina. 

Failing health compelled him to abandon active 
service as a soldier, and he undertook the work of 
war correspondent, first representing " The 
Charleston Mercury," then In 1864 he went to 
Columbia and became editor of " The South Caro- 
linian." About this time he married Miss Kate 
Goodwin, the " Katie " of whom he wrote in his 
poems. 

Julian W. Abernethy, Ph. D., Principal of the 
Berkley Institution, Brooklyn,- says: " In less than 
a year came Sherman's army, cutting its terrible 
swath to the sea, and Timrod was left destitute. 
A few months later his Idolized child died, and In 
the little grave a large portion of the father's 
heart was burled." Before another three years 
had flitted past, ,the tired body of Henry Timrod 
slumbered beside his son In Trinity churchyard, 
Columbia. 



HENRY TIMROD 177 

As it purples in the zenith, 

As it brightens on the lawn, 
There's a hush of death about me, 

And a whisper, " He is gone." 



Henry Timrod was " The poet of the Lost 
Cause, the finest interpreter of the feelings and 
traditions and heroism of a brave people. More- 
over, by his catholic spirit, his wide range, his 
world-wide sympathies, he was a true American 
poet." 

The first edition of his poems, published in 
i860, contained only the verses written in early 
years, but they found a welcome North and South. 
The next volume was not brought out till 1873, 
when the struggle during ,the reconstruction period 
was too stern for the full appreciation of literature, 
though the edition was quickly bought up, as also 
a beautiful edition of " Katie " published by Hale 
& Sons a little later. 

The poet's m.other, who was a daughter of Mr. 
Charles Prince of Charleston, was a lady of rare 
culture and had a passionate love for flower and 
forest, sky and field, and from her Timrod in- 
herited a mind susceptible to every touch of beauty. 
He was a close student of all classic literature. 
While of a modest, retiring disposition, he was a 
man who loved his friends, and among the many 



178 HENRY TIMROD 

who knew him probably his strongest affection was 
for the companion of his boyhood and life-long 
confidant, Paul Hamilton Hayne. When the 
Civil War ended Timrod was left with failing 
health and utterly bankrupt financially. He clung 
passionately to his chosen work; even the death of 
his beloved son and the merciless ravages of disease 
did not rob his pen of beauty. His last occupation 
was to correct the proof sheets of his poems, and 
he died with them by his side, stained with his 
life-blood. 

Some of the happiest days of TImrod's life were 
those spent at " Copse Hill," the home of his 
friend Hayne, and the pathos of his letters to him, 
when he writes freely of sickness, of utter destitu- 
tion, is inexpressibly sorrowful. 

" TImrod's earnestness and deep poetic insight 
clothed all themes with the beauty and light," 
whether of humanity or nature, and .the moral 
purity of everything he wrote is a marked quality 
of his poems. 

'* Ethnogenesis " Is said by many to be his finest 
poem. 

" Spring " is a burst of Southern spring In all 
its glory. 

" Carolina " and " A Call to Arms " have even 
to-day, as In the sixties, a meaning to men of the 
South, " which knows and thrills," and also " they 
have an abiding power from the standpoint of 



HENRY TIM ROD 179 

art, for there is nothing finer in all the martial 
strains of the lyric." 

Paul Hamilton Hayne tells how the words of 
" Carolina " thrilled him by their pathos and 
power, when he read them first one stormy March 
evening in Fort Sumter. 

Timrod's last poem was the Ode written for 
Memorial Day, April, 1867. 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies, 
By morning beauty crowned. 

The keen sensitiveness of Timrod's soul to all 
nature, even the " tiniest flower," is beautifully 
expressed in these lines: 

And when In wild or thoughtless hour 
My Maud hath crushed the tiniest flower, 

I ne'er could shut from sight 
The corpses of the tender things, 
With other drear Imaginings, 
And the little angel-flowers with wings 

Would haunt me through the night. 

The feelings of all Southern hearts are told in 
the lines : 

Sleep sweetly In your humble graves. 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause. 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause. 



i8o HENRY TIMROD 

In seeds of laurel In the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone. 

A beautiful monument was unveiled at Charles- 
ton, in 1 90 1, In honor of the poet. 

On October 6, 1867, Henry Timrod passed 
from earth at his little cottage home on Hender- 
son Street, Columbia, South Carolina, and was 
buried October 7. The house is still standing, 
having escaped the cruel and needless conflagration 
in 1865. 

" At the end of a generation the poet's fame 
keeping its freshness and fidelity has come to full 
maturity; his poems are read in every State and 
they are now asked for in Canada." 

" Through clouds and sunshine, in peace and 
in war, amid the stress of poverty and the storms 
of civil strife, his soul never faltered and his pur- 
pose never failed- To his poetic mission he was 
faithful to the end. In life and in death he was 
no,t disobedient to the heavenly vision." This is 
the inscription on the west panel of his monument 
in Charleston. 

Lanier calls Timrod's name, " One of the very 
sweetest names connected with Charleston," and 
Hayne says: "His compositions, with all their 
elegance, finish, and superb propriety of diction, 
always leave the impression of having been born, 
not manufactured." 



HENRY TIM ROD i8i 

The following excerpt Is taken from a poem 
written complimentary to his wife, her name being 
Kate. 

KATIE 

It may be through some foreign grace, 
And unfamiliar charm of face; 
It may be that across the foam 
Which bore her from her childhood's home, 
By some strange spell, my Katie brought, 
Along with English creeds and thought — 
Entangled in her golden hair — > 
Some English sunshine, warmth, and air! 
I cannot tell — but here to-day, 
A thousand billowy leagues away 
From that green isle whose twilight skies 
No darker are than Katie's eyes. 
She seems to me, go where she will, 
An English girl in England still! 
- I meet her on the dusty street. 
And daisies spring about her feet ; 
Or, touched to life beneath her tread. 
An English cowslip lifts its head; 
And, as to do her grace, rise up 
The primrose and the buttercup ! 

I roam with her through fields of cane. 
And seem to stroll an English lane, 
Which, white with blossoms of the May, 
Spreads its green carpet in her way ! 
As fancy wills, the path beneath 
Is golden gorse, or purple heath; 



i82 HENRY TIMROD 

And now we hear in woodlands dim 

Their unarticulated hymn ; 

Now walk through rippling waves of wheat, 

Now sink in mats of clover sweet, 

Or see before us from the lawn 

The lark go up to greet the dawn! 

All birds that love the English sky 

Throng 'round my path when she is by; 

The blackbird from a neighboring thorn 

With music brims the cup of morn, 

And in a thick, melodious rain 

The mavis pours her mellow strain! 

But only when my Katie's voice 

Makes all the listening woods rejoice, 

I hear — with cheeks that flush and pale — 

The passion of the nightingale! 

With permission from Ticknor &' Co., Boston, and 
B. F. Johnson Pub, Co., Richmond, Virginia. 

CAROLINA 



The despot treads thy sacred sands, 
Thy pines give shelter to his bands, 
Thy sons stand by with idle hands, 

Carolina ! 
He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, 
He scorns the lances of thy palm ; 
Oh, who shall break thy craven calm, 

Carolina ! 



HENRY TIM ROD 183 

Thy ancient fame is growing dim, 
A spot is on thy garment's rim; 
Give to the winds thy battle-hymn, 
Carolina ! 



II 



Call on thy children of the hill, 
Wake swamp and river, coast and rill. 
Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, 

Carolina ! 
Cite wealth and science, trade and art. 
Touch with thy fire the cautious mart. 
And pour thee through the people's heart — 

Carolina ! 
Till even the coward spurns his fears. 
And all thy fields and fens and meres 
Shall bristle like thy palms with spears, 

Carolina ! 



Ill 



Hold up the glories of thy dead; 
Say how thy elder children bled, 
And point to Eutaw's battle-bed, 

Carolina ! 
Tell how the patriot soul was tried, 
And what his dauntless breast defied; 
How Rutledge ruled and Laurens died, 

Carolina ! 



1 84 HENRY TIM ROD 

Cry till thy summons, heard at last, 
Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blast 
Re-echoed from the haunted past, 
Carolina ! 



IV 



I hear a murmur as of waves 

That grope their way through sunless caves. 

Like bodies struggling in their graves, 

Carolina ! 
And now it deepens; slow and grand 
It swells, as, rolling to the land, 
An ocean broke upon thy strand — 

Carolina ! 
Shout ! Let it reach the startled Huns ! 
And roar with all thy festal guns! 
It is the answer of thy sons, 

Carolina ! 



They will not wait to hear thee call ; 
From Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall 
Resounds the voice of hut and hall — 

Carolina ! 
No! thou hast not a stain, they say. 
Or none save what the battle-day 
Shall wash in seas of blood away, 

Carolina ! 



HENRY TIMROD 185 

Thy skirts Indeed the foe may part, 
Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, 
They shall not touch thy noble heart — 
Carolina ! 



VII 

Girt with such wills to do and bear, 
Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, 
Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, 

Carolina ! 
Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! 
Front with thy ranks the threatening seas, 
Like thine own proud armorial trees, 

Carolina ! 
Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, 
And roar the challenge from thy guns; 
Then leave the future to thy sons, 

Carolina ! 

Memorial Edition, B^ F. Johnson Pub. Co., Richmond, 
Virginia. 

Henry Timrod's other poems are: " A Cry to 
Arms," '' Katie," " Why Silent," " The Lily Con- 
fidante," '' Rosebuds," " Our Willie," '' The 
Cotton Boll," "Spring," "A Vision of Poesy," 
" Sonnet and Others." 



MRS. MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 

C' MARION HARLAND") 

1831— 

This well-known writer was born in Amelia 
County, Virginia, and is the daughter of Samuel 
p. Hawes. Although born in the country, the 
greater part of her life was passed in Richmond, 
her father being a respected merchant of that city. 
He was a lineal descendant of the Puritans, and 
her mother was from the earliest settlers of Vir- 
ginia. At a very early age " Marion Harland " 
showed a remarkable talent for writing, and when 
only fourteen she wrote short stories of real merit. 

In 1856 she was married to the Rev. E. R. 
Terhune, and since 1859 has spent most of her 
time in the North. Her family cherish sacredly 
the names, deeds, and homesteads of their ances- 
tors North and South, and the hearty participation 
in the feelings of both Northern and Southern 
branches is undoubtedly the cause of the freedom 
from sectional prejudice in all of Marion Har- 
land's writings./ 

The dream of this woman has always been au- 
thorship. At the age of fourteen she contrib- 

186 



MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 187 

uted, under an assumed name, a series of papers to 
a weekly city journal. The notice which these 
sketches attracted, and the desire that was ex- 
pressed to know the author, was all very flattering 
encouragement to the youthful writer. Tales, 
essays, poems, now followed rapidly, and she 
studied with untiring constancy. 

A fugitive sketch, written at sixteen, and called 
" Marrying through Prudential Motives," ap- 
peared in " Godey's Ladies' Book " and had quite 
a remarkable career. It was copied into an Eng- 
lish paper, then transferred to a Parisian journal, 
retranslated for another English periodical and 
was extensively read as an English story, till Mr. 
Godey claimed it as one of his publications. 

In 1854, under the nom de plume of " Marion 
Harland," Mrs. Terhune published her first book, 
" Alone." Long after the first appearance of this 
story, a new edition went to press regularly every 
few weeks, while it was reprinted with nearly as 
much eclat in England, was translated into French, 
and found its way into most European cities. 

Two years later " The Hidden Path " was pub- 
lished, and besides great popularity at home, was 
the only book by a female writer given place in 
*' Standard American Authors," a collection pub- 
lished in Leipzig. 

A third novel, " Moss Side," was brought out 
with like success in 1857. 



1 88 MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 

As a magazine writer In these early years, the 
contributions of Marlon Harland were always 
eagerly sought for, and her contributions to 
Godey's Magazine would fill a volume. 

In 1859 the Rev. Mr. Terhune was called to 
the pastorate of the First Reformed Dutch Church 
In Newark, New Jersey, and the family removed 
to that city, where the Southern woman found a 
warm welcome and many congenial friends. Un- 
like so many authors, the home life and relations 
of Mrs. Terhune have been very happy. United 
to a man of rare scholarship, she always had his 
keen sympathy and his valuable criticism and re- 
vision of her work. 

Marlon Harland's stories deal mostly with 
Southern life, and have been very popular with 
readers of fiction. They are perfectly pure and 
wholesome, and she still is a writer of many arti- 
cles, which are eagerly read. As a wife, mother, 
and housekeeper, Marlon Harland has nobly 
'* practiced what she preached." ^ She spends her 
winters In New York, her summers In the suburbs. 
Her mornings are devoted to her writing, her 
evenings to her family. 

CHINK-FILLERS 

At a recent conference of practical housewives and 
mothers held in a Western city, one of the leaders told, 
as illustrative of the topic under discussion, an incident 



MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 189 

of her childhood. When a little girl of seven years, she 
stood by her father, looking at a new log-cabin. 

*' Papa," she observed, " it is all finished, isn't it? " 

** No, my daughter; look again." 

The child studied the structure before her. The neatly 
hewed logs were in their proper places. The roof, and 
the rough chimney, were complete; but, on close scru- 
tiny, one could see the daylight filtering through the 
interstices of the logs. It had yet to be chinked. 

When this anecdote was ended, a bright little woman 
arose and returned her thanks for the story, for, she said, 
she had come to the conclusion that she was one of the 
persons who had been put in the world to fill up the 
chinks. 

The chink-fillers are among the most useful members 
of society. The fact is patent of the founder of one of 
our great educational systems, that he grasped large 
plans and theories, but had no talent for minutiae. What 
would his majestic outlines be without the army of 
workers who, with a just comprehension of the impor- 
tance of detail, fill in the chink in the vast enterprise? 

Putty may be a mean, cheap article, far inferior to the 
clear, transparent crystal pane, but what would become 
of the costly plate-glass were there no putty to fill in the 
grooves in which it rests, and to secure it against shocks? 

It requires vast patience and much love for one's fellow- 
man to be a chink-filler. She it is who, as wife, mother, 
sister, or perhaps, maiden-aunt, picks up the hat or gloves 
Mamie has carelessly left on the drawing-room table, 
wipes the tiny finger smears from the window-panes at 
which baby stood to wave his hand to papa this morning;, 
dusts the rungs of the chair neglected by the parlor-maid. 



igo MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 

and mends the ripped coat which Johnny forgot to men- 
tion until it was nearly time to start for school. It is 
she who thinks to pull the basting-threads out of the newly 
finished gown, tacks ruching in neck and sleeves against 
the time when daughter or sister may want it in a hurry, 
remembers to prepare some dainty for that member of 
the household who is " not quite up to the mark " in 
appetite — in fact, undertakes those tasks, so many of which 
show for little when done, but which are painfully con- 
spicuous when neglected. 

Strange as it may seem, the mind of the hireling can- 
not grasp the importance of the lesser tasks that go to 
make up the sum of existence. If you allow Bridget to 
prepare your chambers for an unexpected friend, you will 
observe that she glories in Rembrandt-like effects — which, 
when viewed at a distance, assume a respectable appear- 
ance. You, with brains back of your hands, will notice 
that there is a tiny hole in the counterpane, dust under 
the table, and — above all — that the soap-dish is not clean. 
Your servant may do the rough work ; the dainty, lady-like 
touch must be given by you. 

You have an experienced waitress and a jewel if the 
dining-room and table are perfect without your super- 
vision. It may be only that a teacup or plate is sticky or 
rough to the touch, a fork or a knife needed, the steel or 
one of the carvers forgotten. But when the family is 
assembled at the board, these trifles cause awkward pauses 
and interruptions. 

Often the work which " doesn't show " takes most time, 
and tries the temper. It would be an excellent plan for 
each member of the household to resolve to put in its 
proper place everything which he or she observes out of 



MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 191 

order. By the time this rule had been established for 
twenty-four hours, the house would be immaculate, and 
the mother find ample time for her mission — if she has any 
besides general chink-filler for the family. If not, she 
will have an opportunity to rest. 

A well-known author, who is at the same time an 
exemplary housewife, tells of how she retired one rainy 
spring morning to her study in just the mood for writing. 
Husband and sons had gone to their various occupations. 
She had a splendid day for work ahead of her. She sat 
down to her desk and took up her pen. The plot of a 
story was forming itself in her brain. She dipped her 
pen in the ink and wrote: 

(( TT J> 

lie was 

A knock at the door. Enter Anne. 

" Please, mem, a mouse has eat a hole in one of your 
handsome napkins — them as I was to wash ag'in the com- 
pany you're expectin' to-morrow night. By rights it 
should be mended before it's washed." 

" Bring it to the sewing-room." 

When the neat piece of darning was ended, the house- 
keeper repaired to the closet to put on a loose writing 
sack. On the nail next to the jacket hung her winter 
coat. On the edge of the sleeve was a tiny hole. The 
housewifely spirit was filled with dread. There were 
actually moths in that closet. She must attend to it im- 
mediately. The woolens ought to be put up if moths 
had already appeared. John's clothes and the boys' win- 
ter coats were in great danger of being ruined. By lunch 
time the necessary brushing and doing up were ended. 
But in stowing away the winter garments in the attic our 
heroine was appalled at the confusion among the trunks. 



192 MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 

The garret needed attention, and received it as soon as the 
noonday meal was dispatched. At four o'clock, with the 
waitress' assistance, the task was completed. About the 
same time a note arrived from John saying he would be 
obliged to bring two of his old friends — '' swell bach- 
elors who were spending the day in town — to dine with 
him that night. She must not put herself to any trouble 
about dinner, and he would take them to the theater in 
the evening." To the dinner already ordered were added 
oyster-pates, salad with mayonnaise dressing, salted alm- 
onds, and instead of the plain pudding that John liked, 
was a pie of which he was still more fond, capped by 
black coffee, all of which articles, except the last-named, 
were prepared by the hostess, who, in faultless toilette, 
with remarkable brilliant color, smilingly welcomed her 
husband and his guests to the half-past-six dinner. When 
they had gone to the theater, and the mother had talked 
to her two sons of the day's school experiences, before 
they settled down to their evening of study, she returned 
to the dining-room, and, as Mary had a headache and had 
had a busy day, she assisted in washing and wiping the 
unusual number of soiled dishes, and in setting the break- 
fast table. At nine o'clock she dragged her weary self 
upstairs. 

As she passed the door of her sanctum on the way to 
her bedchamber, she paused, then entered and lighted the 
gas-jet over her desk. In it lay a page of foolscap, blank 
but for the words: 

" He was ^" 

The day had gone, and the plot with it. 

With a half-sob she sat down and wrote with tired 
and trembling fingers: 



MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 193 

" He was — this morning. He isn't now! " 
But will not my readers agree with me that she was 
a genuine wife, mother, housekeeper — in short, a " chink- 
filler"? 

Permission of Marion Harland. 

Works: " Alone," " Moss-side," '' Beech- 
dale," " Judith," " The Hidden Path," " Handi- 
capped," " Nemesis," " At Last," " Helen Gard- 
ner's Wedding Days," " Jessamine," " With Best 
Intentions," " True as Steel," " Sunnybank," 
" From My Youth Up," "My Little Love," " A 
Gallant Fight," "The Royal Road," "His 
Daughters," " Marion," " Common Sense in the 
Nursery," " The Cottage Kitchen," " The Dinner 
Year Book," " Breakfast, Luncheon, and Tea," 
" The Story of Mary Washington," " Loitering 
in Pleasant Paths." 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 

1809 — 1849 

Few Americans have attracted more attention 
than the Southern poet, Edgar Allan Poe, and 
many biographies of him, innumerable reviews, 
and criticisms, some intelligent, but many igno- 
rantly and unjustly written, have been published. 
The fascination of mystery enshrouds much con- 
cerning him, and adds melancholy interest to his 
history. The very place and date of his birth were 
for a long time a matter of dispute. It is asserted 
now and generally admitted that Edgar Poe was 
born in Boston during a theatrical engagement 
of his parents, for they were actors. 

Richard H. Stoddard says Poe was born on 
February 19, while Eugene Didier writes that 
it was January 19. The parents were Southern 
people and their home was in Baltimore or Rich- 
mond, when they were not traveling. 

For one hundred years the Poe family occupied 
a prominent position in the city of Baltimore. 
David Poe, called General Poe, the grandfather 
of the poet, was born in Londonderry, in Ireland, 
in 1743. John Poe and his wife, Jane McBride, 

194 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 195 

the great-grandparents, were also Irish. The 
family emigrated to America and settled first in 
Pennsylvania, where David Poe grew to manhood 
and married the beautiful Miss Cairnes of that 
State. In 1776 David Poe took up his permanent 
residence in Baltimore, where he held many posi- 
tions of trust and rendered valuable service to the 
State. Some of his patriotic letters may be found 
among the Maryland papers of the " '76 Society." 
In 1824, when Lafayette was in Baltimore, on 
learning of the death of General Poe, he called to 
see Mrs. Poe and expressed to her his great regard 
for her husband. General Poe had six children, 
of whom the eldest was David Poe, Jr., the father 
of Edgar. He was a handsome, dashing young 
man, and was one of the founders of the Thespian 
Club of Baltimore. He became infatuated with 
the stage and at Charleston announced his intention 
of making his first appearance there as an actor. 
His uncle, William Poe, persuaded him to give up 
the stage, and take a place in the law office of Hon. 
John Forsyth, of Augusta, Georgia. William 
Poe had settled in Augusta and married the sister 
of Hon. John Forsyth. Hon. Washington Poe 
was a child of this marriage and became a member 
of Congress from Georgia. David Poe fell in 
love with an actress whose maiden name was 
Arnold, married her and then adopted and fol- 
lowed his wife's profession. After a wandering 



196 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

life of poverty and failure, they both perished in 
the Richmond Theatre, which was burned Decem- 
ber 26, 181 1, in Baltimore. Three children were 
left penniless. After their death Edgar was 
adopted by a Mr. Allan of Richmond, Virginia, 
who, after rearing him in luxury, died and left 
him without a dollar. Rosalie Poe was adopted 
by Mr. McKenzie of Richmond, and William 
Henry, by Mr. Henry Didier, of Baltimore. 

When Edgar Poe was a mere child in the 
adopted home, " Mr. Allan would call upon him 
frequently, at dinings, to give a toast, and the boy, 
rising, roguishly and with ineffable grace, would 
drink the wine and wittily respond, to the delight 
of all present." The impressions this training 
made on a nervous and highly wrought tempera- 
ment, with strong tendencies toward stimulants, 
were no doubt the beginnings of the habits which 
blighted Poe's life, and led to his early death, 
robbing the world of his genius, which should 
have gladdened it for many years. Poe was so 
sensitive to the Influence of an intoxicant that 
a single glass of wine made him frantic. When 
he was six years old, he went with his foster par- 
ents to Europe and attended a private school 
near London. Upon the family returning to 
Richmond, Edgar entered the University of Vir- 
ginia, where he was a successful student of 
languages, and graduated with the highest honor 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 197 

he could receive from the University, which then 
had no provisions for conferring degrees of any 
kind. 

Mr. Allan now gave him a position in his office, 
but the young man grew weary of office work 
drudgery, went to Boston, and enlisted in the 
United States Army, under the name of Edgar A. 
Perry. Here he was again dissatisfied, and Mr. 
Allan secured his discharge, obtaining for him an 
appointment at West Point. " The routine of 
military school life became more and more dis- 
tasteful to him, until at length he deliberately 
brought about his expulsion by neglect of such 
duties as roll-call and guard duty." 

Upon the death of Mrs. Allan, Poe lost his 
best friend, with her tender solicitude and affec- 
tionate interest. Within a year after the death of 
his wife Mr. Allan married Louise Gabrielle Pat- 
terson, and when a son was born Poe ceased to 
be the prospective heir to five thousand acres of 
land in Goochland, Virginia, a hundred slaves, and 
real estate in Richmond — in all a property amount- 
ing to five hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Allan 
continued for a time to give Edgar a home, but 
he was merely tolerated, not loved and cared for 
as he had been during the life of the first wife. 
Poe, with his proud, sensitive nature, felt the 
change keenly, and a quarrel and rupture were in- 
evitable. Eugene Didier says in his life of Poe: 



198 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

" For nearly twenty years Edgar had been the 
idolized child of the house. He returns from 
West Point and finds all things changed in the old 
Fifth Street house. Another Mrs. Allan was 
there. We all know the influence of a second wife 
upon a fond, doting old husband. Edgar felt its 
effects more than any one else. Mrs. Allan very 
naturally wanted all the Allan property for the 
Allan children." 

Mrs. Susan Archer Tally Weiss says, in a letter 
to Mr. Didier: "The cause of the quarrel be- 
tween the Allans and Poe was very simple and 
very natural, human nature considered," and she 
completely exonerated Edgar Poe from all blame. 

Soon after this Mr. Allan died, leaving Poe 
unmentioned in his will. In time Poe wandered 
again to Baltimore, and made his home with his 
father's sister, Mrs. Clemm, whose daughter Vir- 
ginia he married in May, 1836. Though ex- 
tremely poor, the three formed a very happy 
household, until death took the child-wife and left 
Poe alone again with only desperate poverty. 
" Seldom has a life been so full of genius and of 
misery." 

During all these years Edgar Allan Poe was a 
constant contributor to various periodicals, win- 
ning a prize from a Philadelphia paper with his 
story, " The Gold Bug," and the hundred-dollar 
prize offered by the " Baltimore Saturday Visitor " 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 199 

with his story, " A MS. Found in a Bottle." In 
1835 he went to Richmond and became assistant 
editor of " The Southern Literary Messenger," 
which magazine he conducted with marked ability. 
His stories " The Maelstrom " and " The Mur- 
ders in Rue Morgue " are among the most 
powerful short stories in any language. He was 
the first and greatest writer of detective stories. 
His " Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin " is a master 
of the analysis of crime. 

Brander Matthews in his " Introduction to 
American Literature " says: " Poe, in the eyes of 
foreigners, is the most gifted of all the authors 
of America; he is the one to whom the critics of 
Europe would most readily accord the full title 
of genius. At the end of this nineteenth century, 
Poe is the sole man of letters, born in the United 
States, whose writings are read eagerly in Great 
Britain, in France, in Germany, in Italy, and In 
Spain, where Franklin is now but a name, and 
where the fame of James Fenimore Cooper, once 
so widely spread, is now slowly drifting away." 

Poe's works cover three fields, poetry, fiction 
and criticism, and in the latter he first attracted 
attention. As a writer of short stories he estab- 
lished a reputation for great originality. Prob- 
ably his strongest work is in prose. His analysis 
and his description were so true and real that some 
believed his stories founded on actual experience; 



200 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

as for Instance the " Balloon Journey," published 
in the New York " Sun," and his analysis of 
monomania and catalepsy in the story of Bernice. 

" A MS. Found in a Bottle " is the story of a 
sailor who went down in a whirlpool near the 
South Pole. 

" The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym " is a 
horrible story of adventures that befell a ship- 
wrecked crew among cannibals. Discovery and 
invention helped Foe in the weird tale of " Sche- 
herazade," and the " Gold Bug " Is an account of 
the discovery of Captain Kidd's treasure under a 
tulip tree. " The Murders of the Rue Morgue " 
shows the powerful analytical reasoning of a young 
Frenchman who finally discovers that the perpe- 
trator of a horrible murder which had shocked all 
Paris was an escaped orang-outang. " The Mys- 
tery of Maria Bouget " Is the exposition of an- 
other murder, and " The Black Cat," one among 
his best known stories, shows the growth of crim- 
inal Impulse and the helplessness of a broken 
will. 

Edgar Poe is described as having been of me- 
dium height, erect and handsome In early life. 
His eyes possessed wondrous beauty and charm. 
Intellectually and as a companion he was most fas- 
cinating, and when not under the influence of 
liquor, a most lovable person. He closed his 
troubled life at the Washington University Hospl- 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 201 

tal of Baltimore, from causes which will probably 
never be known. 

It has been declared that Poe was intoxicated 
and left the train, not knowing what he was doing, 
but when his monument was erected in Baltimore 
in 1875, t)y the teachers of that city, assisted by 
George W. Childs of Philadelphia, this accusation 
was declared untrue. 

Appleton Morgan says: "The conductor of 
the train carrying the poet for the last time, made 
a sworn statement that there was no sign of intoxi- 
cation about him," and Dr. John J. Morgan said: 
" There was no smell of liquor about the body 
when brought to the hospital." The story that 
Poe was a habitual drunkard is denied by many 
modern writers. 

In the winter of 1837, when Poe and his little 
family were in New York, Mrs. Clemm endeav- 
ored to add to their slender income by taking 
boarders. William Gowans, a then well-known 
bookseller, boarded with them. He says of the 
eight months he was with Poe: " I saw much of 
him during that time. He was one of the most 
courteous, gentlemanly, and intelligent compan- 
ions I ever met. I never saw him In the least af- 
fected by liquor, or descend to any known vice." 

Eugene DIdler says: "There are some people 
who will always believe that the life of Edgar 
Allan Poe was one long fit of intoxication. It 



202 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

never seems to occur to these people that a drunk- 
ard's Intellect could not have produced the literary 
work which stands as an immortal monument to 
Poe's genius." 

Besides the ancient and modern languages Poe's 
works show a familiarity with natural history, 
mineralogy, philosophy, chemistry, astronomy, etc. 
Habitual drunkards do not, generally speaking, 
spend their time in accumulating vast stores of 
learning. It does seem very suspicious that only 
one of Poe's acquaintances knew of his frequent 
" fits of intoxication." N. P. Willis, who was in 
daily intercourse with him for months, saw noth- 
ing of his dissipated habits. L. A. Wilmer, dur- 
ing an intimate friendship of twelve years, saw 
nothing of it. George R. Graham, who was asso- 
ciated with him for two years, saw nothing of it. 
S. D. Lewis, who lived in closest intimacy, never 
saw Poe drink a glass of wine, beer or liquor of 
any kind. The fact is, that it was only at rare 
intervals, and more especially after the loss of his 
adored wife, that he indulged In stimulants. 
Poe was a most industrious, laborious, painstaking 
writer. Neilson Poe said Edgar was one of the 
best-hearted men that ever lived. " Every person 
who came in contact with Edgar Poe speaks of 
his elegant appearance, the stately grace of his 
manners, and his fascinating conversation." 

Hannay, the English critic, says of Poe's writ- 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 203 

ings : " His poetry is all as pure as wild flowers. 
With all his passion for the beautiful, no poet was 
ever less voluptuous. He never profaned his 
genius." 

It is a matter of surprise that any American 
writer, who really has at heart the honor of Amer- 
ican literature, should endeavor to cast reproach 
and dishonor upon Edgar Allan Poe, who has 
done more for our country's literary reputation 
than any other author. It is hard to stop a false- 
hood when once started. 

Edgar Allan Poe was perhaps the most schol- 
arly writer our country ever produced. His ac- 
quaintance with classical literature was thorough, 
and even the most insignificant of his writings 
show scholarship. 

Dr. Griswold's " Life of Poe " was unfortu- 
nately our first medium for forming an estimate of 
our noble poet. This biography was only the 
cruel revenge a man took upon a dead author who 
had dared in life to criticise the book " Poets and 
Poetry of America." Every volume of Dr. Gris- 
wold's biography of Edgar Allan Poe should be 
destroyed. 

His published works are " Poems," " Tales of 
the Arabesque and Grotesque," " Humorous 
Tales and Sketches," '' Literati of New York," 
" Conchologist's First Book," " Poems Written in 
Youth," and " Critical Essays." 



204 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Walter C. Brown says: ''To his American en- 
vironment Poe owed nothing but poverty and fet- 
ters, but In spite of all he managed to produce a 
few poems and tales which are perfect of their 
kind, and greatly raised the standard of art In 
American literature." 

Another critic says: '' Poe's striking genius will 
rank him always as one of the most distinguished 
writers of English. To-day his works are more 
In demand than ever before. They abound In that 
magnetic quality which not only attracts, but also 
arouses permanent Interest. You will read Poe 
over and over again. No one can have a knowl- 
edge of American verse, fiction, and criticism with- 
out a thorough acquaintance with his masterpieces 
of Imagination. His writings constitute a treasure- 
house of pathos, mystery, melody, and dramatic 
narrative, weird fancy, and profound wisdom." 

Mrs. M. E. Bryant writes : '' Almost as many 
utterly false things have been published and be- 
lieved about Poe as about Byron. In the new En- 
cyclopaedia Britannica it says that Poe is the most 
Interesting figure in American literature, and fur- 
nishes the most extraordinary instance on record 
of systematic misrepresentation on the part of 
biographers." 

His " critical notices," spiced with wit and 
irony, his acute sensitiveness to defects, particu- 
larly in poetry, made him a severe and con- 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 205 

sclentious critic. He made enemies by this, such 
as Dr. Griswold, whose works he frankly criti- 
cised. 

Donald G. Mitchell says: "Again and again in 
highest praise, of this erratic genius, it must be 
said that in his pages there is no coarse, no beastly 
double meaning, not a line to pamper sensual 
appetite." 

" The Raven " was published anonymously in 
" The American Review " of February, 1845. N- 
P. Willis, who knew it to be Poe's, transferred it 
to " The New York Evening Mirror " and gave 
it a good review. An English writer says: " ' The 
Raven ' is the most popular lyrical poem in the 
world. It has been translated and commented 
upon by the leading literati of the two continents, 
and an entire literature has been founded upon it." 

At West Point Poe's scholarship was high, but 
he rebelled against the routine of military dis- 
cipline. Poe's life was one long struggle with 
poverty. In 1833 he had sunk to great destitu- 
tion, when " A MS. Found in a Bottle " won the 
prize of $100. Under his conduct "The South- 
ern Literary Messenger " sprang into sudden 
prominence, and gained wonderful advancement. 
Professor Woodbery says, speaking of Poe : " He 
impressed me as a refined and very gentlemanly 
man, exceedingly neat in person. His manner 
was quiet and reserved. The form of his MS. 



2o6 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

was peculiar. He wrote on half sheets of note 
paper which he pasted together. His life In the 
cottage on the outskirts of Philadelphia and later 
In Fordham was Idyllic In the days when his child- 
wife was well enough to sing on the harp, while 
Poe hung over her frail form tenderly, and good 
Mrs. Clemm, who Idolized them both, looked on 
with motherly pleasure." 

After the death of his wife, Poe had brain 
fever, and he never quite returned to his former 
self, and the Intense suffering of his morbidly sen- 
sitive nature, with all the sad results, must touch 
the heart of any merciful person. Although the 
critical reviews of Poe were not valued In his time 
as they should be, they helped to raise the standard 
of American letters by their keen, fearless attacks 
upon " complacent mediocrity." 

His lectures on '' The Poetic Principle," In which 
poetry Is defined as " the rhythmic creation of 
Beauty," were a '' wholesome antidote to the dl- 
dactism of New England conception of Art." 
Walter Bronson says: " Poe has been accused of 
plagiarism, but in his best work he was emphat- 
ically original." The old " Poe and Chivers Con- 
troversy " has from time to time reappeared, and 
claims are made that Poe got his style, atmosphere 
and unique rhythmic conceptions from poems of 
Dr. Thomas Holly Chivers. 

Of this Professor Charles H. Hubner says: 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 207 

" Every reader and student will have to form his 
own conclusions." Referring to " The Bells,'' 
''The Raven," "Annabel Lee," he adds: "No 
critic will doubt that to Poe belongs the wonderful 
magic and mastery of this species of song. If to 
him who says a thing best the thing belongs, no 
one will hesitate to decide that Poe is entitled to 
the ' bays which crown ' him." 

To-day Poe's works are more in demand than 
ever, and to-day he is the most interesting figure 
in American literature. Any one who is not ca- 
pable of appreciation of the beauty of his poetry 
and who has not a heart that can feel keen sym- 
pathy with his bitter poverty, should never attempt 
to be the judge of Edgar Allan Poe. 

Miss Susan Archer Tally (Mrs. Weiss) lived 
near neighbor to Mrs. McKenzie in Richmond, 
who had adopted Poe's sister Rosalie. Mrs. 
Weiss was quite intimate with Rose Poe, and when 
Poe came to Richmond in 1849, i^ ^he interest of 
his magazine, " The Stylus," which he was eager 
to publish, he took lodging at Swan's Tavern, a 
rambling frame building on the corner of Eighth 
and Broad Streets. Poe was then about forty 
years old. Mrs. Weiss described him as of me- 
dium height and distinguished looking. " His 
eyes," she says, " were unlike any I have ever seen 
and possessed wonderful beauty and charm. Large 
and shaded by long black lashes, they were steel 



2o8 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

gray in color, of crystalline clearness, the pupils 
expanding and contracting with every shade of 
thought or emotion. Young as I was, I seemed 
to recognize the finer nature of the man." 

Charles Hemstreet says: "When Poe wrote 
' The Raven ' he was living with his wife and her 
mother, Mrs. Clemm, in Bloomingdale Village, 
the house standing on the thoroughfare now run- 
ning between Broadway and West End Avenue. 
In the spring of 1846, when his wife grew more 
feeble, he moved out into the country to a secluded 
spot then far from the city known as Fordham. 
In this dingy little house Poe dreamed out his 
' Eureka,' and penned the exquisite ' Annabel 
Lee ' and also the first draught of ' The Bells.' " 



THE BELLS 

I 

Hear the sledges with the bells, — 
Silver bells, — 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
In the icy air of night! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 

All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight, — 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 209 

To the tlntinabulatlon that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — » 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

II 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, — 
Golden bells! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 
From the molten-golden notes, 

All in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the Future! How it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — > 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 

Ill 

Hear the loud alarum bells, — 
Brazen bells! 



2IO EDGAR ALLAN POE 

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor, 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear It fully knows, 
By the twanging, 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling. 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells,- 
Of the bells,— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — ■ 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 211 

IV 

Hear the tolling of the bells, — 

Iron bells! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up In the steeple. 

All alone, 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory In so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 

They are Ghouls: 
And their king It is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls. 

Rolls 
A psean from the bells! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean of the bells ! 
And he dances, and he yells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the pgean of the bells, — 

Of the bells; 



212 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme. 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

Permission A. C, Armstrong & SonSj Pub., N. Y. 

ANNABEL LEE 

It was many and many a year ago. 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee: 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child. 

In this kingdom by the sea; 
But we loved with a love which was more than love- 

I and my Annabel Lee; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 
In this kingdom by the sea. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 213 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me — 
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we — 

Of many far wiser than we — 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea. 
Ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 

For the moon never beams without bringing me 
dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — -my darling — my life and my bride, 

In the sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
By permission of A. C. Armstrong, New York City. 



MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 

("CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK") 

1850— 

This talented writer was born at Grantlands, 
the home of her parents near Murfreesboro, Ten- 
nessee, this city being named for her family, who 
were early settlers in the State. 

Her father was a lawyer, but his fortunes were 
ruined by the disasters of the Civil War. In ad- 
dition to this poverty which so early shadowed 
her life, there came to Miss Murfree the trial of 
disease, and a partial paralysis left the little girl 
lame and deprived her of active sports enjoyed by 
other children. Thus she was set apart in one of 
those " wildernesses " Into which God often sends 
those of whom He makes His most capable work- 
ers. " Sickness sent Scott to the country where he 
gathered legend and story, It inclined Dickens to 
reading and laid Hawthorne often down upon the 
carpet to study." Through an Intense desire for 
occupation, the desire to write came to her, for 
both her father and mother had written for many 
magazines. Miss Murfree strengthened her mind 
by the most wholesome and the best reading, and 
she soon developed a capacity for the examination 

214 



MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 215 

of human types, seeming to have peculiar insight 
into the nature of boys. " To the slaves on the 
plantation she was indebted, as was every Southern 
writer, for a unique cultivation of fancy and leg- 
endary taste." 

Although years passed before Miss Murfree's 
writings began to receive much recognition, they 
were years spent in study and intelligent gathering 
in of good material, near at hand. She had op- 
portunity for a varied collection of experiences. 
The buildings on the place where she was born 
were riddled with bullets at the battle of Stone 
River. 

The assumed name, " Charles Egbert Crad- 
dock," under which she wrote, was used for the 
double purpose of concealing failure if it came 
her way, and because she believed the writings of 
a man were more apt to be well received than those 
of a woman. So perfectly did she hide behind 
this nom de plume that her publishers wrote to 
her as to a man, beginning their letters, " My dear 
Craddock." Her manuscripts had nothing femi- 
nine about them, her writing was clear and bold, 
and free from any feminine " hall marks." When 
she wrote " The Prophet of the Great Smoky 
Mountain " and found herself famous, she sur- 
prised her publishers by appearing and introducing 
herself. Miss Murfree's first story, which ap- 
peared in " The Atlantic Monthly," was called 



2i6 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 

" The Dancing Party." Egbert Craddock was 
the name of the hero of her second story, and so, 
being in search of a tiom de plume for herself, 
she took the name of her hero with the prefix of 
Charles. Miss Murfree soon became recognized 
as a Southern writer of uncommon art, originality 
and power. Her sympathetic insight into ordinary, 
unpoetic lives, her recognition of the beauty and 
pathos of the Tennessee mountaineers, shows her 
capable of the depth necessary for a writer of fic- 
tion. She shows with wondrously tender insight 
" that the same questions, the same doubts, the 
same fears and temptations perplex the untutored 
heart as they do the people of higher culture, and 
that the most lowly can often rise to the heights 
of the heroic." 

Her story of " Where the Battle was Fought " 
is a novel of picturesque power, though " The 
Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountain " has been 
considered her best. 

" In the Tennessee Mountains " is a collection 
of eight short stories. " Down the Ravine " is 
called a story for young people, but no one should 
be too old to be delighted by its bright sketches 
of scenery in the Cumberland Mountains. How 
close the story gets to every mother's heart when 
the mountaineer mother says: ''Don't everybody 
know a boy's mother air boun' ter take his part 
agin all the worl' ? " and what more pathetic and 



MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 217 

touching character than the Httle sister, " Tennes- 
see," who " ain't purty, but she's powerful 
peart " ! Miss Murfree's stories are pure and 
wholesome, a benefit to all who read them. 
Among the best-known are: "In the Clouds,'' 
"Keedon Bluffs," "His Vanished Star," "The 
Mystery of Witch Face Mountain." 

IN THE CLOUDS 

"Where be ye goin', Lethe?" demanded Mrs. Sayles, 
ruthlessly interrupting Jacob's monologue. 

" Ter hunt up that thar lamb," replied Alethea calmly, 
as if nothing else had been under discussion. " I ain't seen 
nuthin' of it ter-day, an' some o' the chill'n — I believe 
'twas Joe — 'lowed its dam were down yander nigh Boke's 
spring yesteddy, actin' sorter cur'ous, an' I reckon suthin's 
happened ter it." 

Doaks looked after her as she went, tempted to follow. 

She took the way down the path beside the zigzag rail 
fence. All the corners were rank with wild flowers, vines 
and bushes, among which her golden head showed from 
time to time as in a wreath. She was soon without the 
limits of Wild Cat Hollow. More than once she paused 
as she went, holding her hands above her eyes, and look- 
ing at the vast array of mountains on every side. A for- 
eign land to her, removed even from vague speculation, 
she saw only how those august summits lifted themselves 
into the sky, how the clouds, weary-winged, were fain 
to rest upon them. There was a vague blurring at the 
horizon line, for a shower was succeeded by mist. The 



2i8 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 

woods intervened presently; the long stretches of the 
majestic avenues lay before her, all singularly open, 
cleared of undergrowth by the fiery besom of the autumn 
conflagration. It was very silent ; once only she heard the 
shrill trilling of a tree frog; and once the insistent clamor 
of the locust broke out close at hand, vibrating louder and 
louder and dying away, to be caught up antiphonally in 
the distance. Often she noted the lightning-scathed trees, 
the fated of the forest, writhen and blanched and spectral 
among their flourishing kindred. There were presently 
visible at the end of the long leafy vista other dead trees; 
their blight was more prosaic; they stood girdled and 
white in an abandoned field that lay below the slope on 
which she had paused, and near the base of the mountain. 
A broken, rotting rail-fence still encircled it. Blackberry 
bushes, broom-sedge, a tangle of weeds, were a travesty 
of its crops. A fox, a swift-scudding tawny streak, sped 
across it as she looked. Hard by there was a deserted 
hut : the doors were open, showing dark voids within ; the 
batten shutters flapped with every changing whim of the 
winds. Fine sport they often had, those riotous mountain 
sprites, shrieking down the chimney to affright the loneli- 
ness; then falling to sobs and sighs to mock the voices of 
those who had known sorrow here and perhaps shed tears ; 
sometimes wrapping themselves in snow as in a garment, 
and reeling in fantastic whirls through forlorn and empty 
place; sometimes twitting the gaunt timbers with their 
infirmities, and one wild night wrenching off half a dozen 
clapboards from the roof and scattering them about the 
door. Thus the moon might look in, seeing no more than 
those whose eyes had once met its beam, and even the 
sunlight had melancholy intimations when it shone on the 



MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 219 

forsaken hearth-stone. A screech-owl had found refuge 
among the rafters, and Alethea heard its quavering scream 
ending in a low, sinister chuckle. There was a barn near 
at hand, — a structure of undaubed, unhewn logs, with 
wide-open pass-way below the loft to shelter wagons and 
farm implements; it seemed in better repair than the 
house. The amber sky above the dark woods had deep- 
ened to orange, to crimson; the waning light suffused the 
waters of the spring branch which flowed close by the 
barn, the willows leaning to it, the ferns laving in it. 
The place was incredibly solitary and mournful with the 
persistent spectacle of the deserted house, suggestive of 
collapsed energies, of the defeated schemes of some simple 
humanity. 

A faint bleat rose suddenly. Alethea turned quickly. 
Amongst a patch of briars she caught a glimpse of some- 
thing white; another glance, — it was the ewe, quietly 
nibbling the grass. Alethea had no intention of moving 
softly, but her skirts brushing through the weeds made 
hardly a sound. Her light, sure step scarcely stirred a 
leaf. The ewe saw her presently and paused in feeding. 
She had been making the best of her woes, remaining near 
her lamb, which had fallen into a sink-hole, sustained by 
the earth, gravel and banks of leaves held in the mouth of 
the cavity. Its leg was broken, and thus, although the 
sheep could venture to it, the lamb could not follow to 
the vantage-ground above. Seeing that succor was at 
hand, the sheep lost all patience and calmness, and ran 
about Alethea in a distracting fashion, bleating, till the 
lamb, roused to a renewed sense of its calamities, bleated 
piteously too. As it lay down in the cavity upon the dead 
leaves, it had a strangely important look upon its face, 



220 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 

appreciating how much stir it was making in the world 
for one of its size. Alethea noticed this, albeit she was too 
self-absorbed at the moment. These treacherous hopper- 
shaped sink-holes are of indefinite depth, and are often 
the mouths of caves. To reach the lamb she must needs 
venture half way across the cavity. She stepped cautiously 
down the debris, holding fast the while to the branches 
of an elder-bush growing on its verge. She felt the earth 
sinking beneath her feet. The sheep, which had jumped 
in too, sprang hastily out. Alethea had a dizzy realiza- 
tion of insecurity. She caught the lamb in one arm, then 
stepped upon the sinking mass, and struggled up the side 
of the aperture, as with a great gulp the leaves and earth 
were swallowed into the cavity. She looked down with 
that sickening sense of a sheer escape, still holding the 
lamb in one arm ; the other hand readjusted the heavy 
masses of her golden hair, and the saffron kerchief about 
the neck of her brown dress. The sheep, one anxiety re- 
moved, was the prey of another, and pressed close to 
Alethea, with outstretched head and all the fears of kid- 
napping in her pleading eyes. Alethea waited for a mo- 
ment to rest. Then as she glanced over her shoulder 
her heart seemed to stand still, her brain reeled, and, but 
for her acute consciousness, she would have thought she 
must be dreaming. The clearing lay there all as it was 
a moment before; the deserted buildings, the weed-grown 
fields, the rotting rail fence; the woods dark about it, the 
sky red above it. Around and around the old barn, in a 
silent circuit, three men were solemnly tramping in 
single file. She stood staring at them with dilated eyes, 
all the mystic traditions of supernatural manifestations 
uppermost in her mind. Once more the owl's scream rent 



MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 221 

the brooding stillness. How far that low, derisive chuckle 
echoed ! A star, melancholy, solitary, was in the pensive 
sky. The men's faces were grave, — ^once, twice, thrice, 
they made the round. Then they stood together in the 
open space beneath the loft, and consulted in whispers. 
One suddenly spoke aloud. 

"Oh, Tobe!" he called. 

*' Tobe! " called the echoes. 

There was no answer. All three looked up wistfully. 
Then they again conferred together in a low tone. 

" Oh, Tobias ! " cried the spokesman in a voice of en- 
treaty. 

" Tobias ! " pleaded the plaintive echoes. Still there 
was no answer. The owl screamed suddenly in its weird, 
shrill tones. It had flown out from among the rafters and 
perched on the smokeless chimney of the hut. Then its 
uncanny laughter filled the interval. 

Once more the men whispered anxiously to each other. 
One of them, a tall, ungainly, red-haired fellow, seemed 
to have evolved a solution of the problem which had 
bafllled them. 

" Mister Winkeye! " he exclaimed, with vociferous 
confidence. 

The echoes were forestalled. A sneeze rang out ab- 
ruptly from the loft of the deserted old barn, — a sneeze 
resonant, artificial, grotesque enough to set the blades 
below to roaring with delighted laughter. 

" He mus' hev his joke. Mr. Winkeye air a mighty 
jokified old man," declared the red-haired fellow. 

They made no effort to hold further communication 
with the sneezer in the loft. They hastily placed a burly 
jug in the center of the space below, and laid a silver half- 



222 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 

dollar upon the cob that served as stopper. The coin 
looked extremely small In this juxtaposition. There 
may be people elsewhere who would be glad of a silver 
coin of that size capable of filling so disproportionately 
large a jug. Then they ran off fleetly out of the clearing 
into the woods, and Alethea could hear the brush cracking 
as they dashed through it on the slopes below. 

She was still pale and tremulous, but no longer doubts 
beset her. She understood the wiles of the illicit distiller, 
pursued so closely by the artifices of the raiders, that he 
was prone to distrust the very consumers of his whiskey. 
They never saw his face, they knew not even his name. 
They had no faint suspicion where his still was hidden. 
They were not even dangerous as unwilling witnesses, 
should they be caught with the illicit whiskey in their 
hands. The story that they had left a jug and a half- 
dollar in a deserted barn and found the jug filled and the 
coin vanished, would inculpate no one. From the loft 
the distiller or his emissary could see and recognize them 
as they came. Alethea, having crept down the slope 
amongst the briars in search of the lamb, had been con- 
cealed from him. She was seized with instant desire to 
get way before he should appear. She coveted the knowl- 
edge of no such dangerous secret. She walked boldly out 
from the leafy covert, that he might see her in the clear- 
ing and delay till she was gone. 

The lamb was bleating faintly in her arms; the sheep 
pressed close to her side, nudging her elbow with insistent 
nozzle. The last flush of the day was on her shining hair 
and her grave, earnest face. The path led her by the barn. 
She hesitated, stopped, and drew, back hastily. A man 
was swinging himself alertly down from the loft. He 



MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 223 

caught up the coin, slipped it into his pocket, and lifted 
the jug with the other hand. The next moment he 
dropped it suddenly, with a startled exclamation. His 
eyes had met her eyes. There was a moment of suspense 
charged with mutual recognition. Then she ran hastily 
by, never pausing till she was far away in the deep ob- 
scurity of the woods. 

Courtesy of Houghton^ Mifflin & Co. 



MARIA J. McINTOSH 

" Of noble Scottish descent, tracing back to the 
clan Mcintosh, famous In history as loyal adher- 
ents to the House of Stuart, Maria J. Mcintosh 
was born In Georgia, In the village of Sunbury, 
not far from Savannah, and there received her 
primal stamp and stamina." 

Captain John Moore Mcintosh, her great- 
grandfather, was driven from Scotland by the fall 
of the Stuarts, and set sail, with one hundred re- 
tainers, for the Georgia colony, In 1735. They 
landed on the banks of the Altamaha, and called 
their settlement (now known as Darlen) " New 
Inverness," In memory of the homeland. The 
county still bears the original name, Mcintosh. 
Major Lachlan Mcintosh, the father of Maria, 
was an officer In the Revolutionary War, and after- 
wards became a successful lawyer. After the 
Revolution Major Mcintosh married, removed to 
the village of Sunbury, and here Maria Mcintosh 
was born and reared. 

She attended the academy in Sunbury, and 
nursed her invalid mother for many years, and 
this experience developed the young giri*s mental 
and moral strength. 

224 



MARIA J. M' IN TOSH 225 

In 1835, after the death of father and mother, 
Miss Mcintosh went to live in New York with her 
brother, Captain James M. Mcintosh, of the 
United States Navy. 

" It was suggested by a friend to Miss Mcin- 
tosh that she should try her literary powers in a 
series of juvenile tales. Under the name of 
' Aunt Kitty ' this talented Georgian published 
' Blind Alice ' with marked success." 

Then came " Jessie Graham," " Florence Ar- 
nott," " Grace and Clara," and " Ellen Leslie " 
In rapid succession, " each story pure as a dew- 
drop, sparkling in its own jewel of moral truth." 

Then followed the more ambitious books, 
" Conquest and Self-Conquest," " Praise and 
Principle " and " Two Lives." In 1848 appeared 
*' Charms and Counter Charms," " a work In 
which the author seems to have concentrated the 
strength of her artistic and womanly nature. It 
Is threaded with veins and nerves, as if she had 
dipped her pen in living hearts, and had written 
on because the electric tide would flow." 

In 1853 "The Lofty and the Lowly" was 
published and sold rapidly at home and abroad. 
In company with her nephew, the Hon. John 
Ward, Miss Mcintosh sailed for Liverpool in 
1859, and she enjoyed months of travel in Eng- 
land and France, settling for a time with Mrs. 
Ward, her brother's wife. In Switzerland. " Their 



226 MARIA J. M'INTOSH 

cottage, shut In by Alpine Heights," was fit home 
for gathering food and Inspiration for future au- 
thorship. Miss Mcintosh was known to the read- 
ing world chiefly through her prose writings, yet 
she published fragments of song, such as " A La- 
ment," " A Paean," and " A Prayer," which are 
true poems. Her books have all been translated 
Into French, and were largely sold In France and 
England. Love of locality and home Is expressed 
In " A Southern Home." 

Home! Home! I have had too many resting places in 
my not very long life — this is my twentieth birthday — 
but I have had, I can have, but one home. For eight 
years I have not seen It, with the bodily eye, and yet how 
vividly it stands before me! A week ago I determined to 
paint it, and the picture, to which I have given every 
moment of leisure, is done; here in this record of thought 
and feeling meant only for myself, I may say what I truly 
think. 

There Is the very beach where I gathered shells with 
my faithful nurse, my kind, devoted Charity. To the 
eastward the blue waves are lifting their white foam- 
crests to the sun; inland I can distinguish amid the mass 
of verdure which marked the utmost tropical luxuriance 
of St. Mary's Isle, the glistening leaves of the orange- 
trees only half concealing their snowy flowers and golden 
fruit, and the darker green of the old oaks, " the king 
of forests all," from whose giant boughs the long pendant 
moss suspends its floating drapery of silver gray. Within 
the circle of those live oaks rises the home which sheltered 



MARIA J. M'INTOSH 227 

my orphan childhood : a frame building two stories high, 
and surrounded by a piazza, whose pillars, wreathed with 
roses, honeysuckles and woodbine, gave something of airy 
brightness to what would otherwise have been without 
ornament and grace. 



THOMAS NELSON PAGE 
1853 

This American writer of dialect stories was 
born at Oakland plantation, Hanover County, Vir- 
ginia. His early life was passed upon the estate 
which belonged to his maternal ancestor, Thomas 
Nelson. He was educated at Washington and Lee 
University and there studied law, afterwards prac- 
ticing in Richmond. As a delineator of negro dia- 
lect and character there are few men who equal 
him, and possibly none excel him. He has won 
for himself a lasting and enviable name in the 
world of letters. His first literary attempts were 
in the shape of negro dialect stories and poems, 
and they were so well received that he settled down 
to the steady, hard work necessary for a literary 
career. The first real story of any length which 
came from his pen was entitled " In Old Virginia," 
and appeared in 1887. Shortly after its appear- 
ance a leading critic said: " To Mr. Page all eyes 
will now be turned, for he has done something 
in a literary way notably excellent and pointing 
easily to a future bright with a sunlit path." 

His second story, published in 1883, " Two Lit- 

228 



THOMAS NELSON PAGE 229 

tie Confederates," was even better than " In Old 
Virginia." But his greatest production came later 
when his pen brought forth those undying master- 
pieces, "Marse Chan," '^ Meh Lady," "Red 
Rock," and his latest, " Gordon Keith." " These 
four books are destined to live beyond this age, 
for they tell a tale of life and character equal to 
that told by Dickens." 

Page has one charm which few latter-day writ- 
ers possess, namely, absolute perfectness of fin- 
ish as to style and rhetoric. He turns out no 
" shoddy " or hasty work. His stories delineate 
the old Virginia darky and his dialect, as Mr. 
Harris does the darky of the Carolinas and Geor- 
gia. There is a marked difference in the language 
of the negro in different sections of the South. 

" The naturalness of this author's style, the 
skill with which he uses seemingly indifferent inci- 
dents and sayings to light up his pictures, the ap- 
parently unintentional and therefore most effective 
touches of pathos, are uncommon." 

That this writer's life has been a busy one, is 
evidenced by the number of his books : 

"In Old Virginia,'^ "Two Little Confeder- 
ates," "On Newfoundland River," "The Old 
South," " Among the Camps," " Elsket and Other 
Stories," "Befo' de War," "Pastime Stories," 
" The Burial of the Guns," " Unc' Edinburgh," 
" Meh Lady," " Marse Chan," " Polly," " Social 



^ 



^ 



230 



THOMAS' NELSON PAGE 



^ 



Life in Old Virginia," " The Old Gentleman of 
the Black Stock," "Two Prisoners," t*/ Red 
Rock," " Santa Claus's Partner," " A Captured 
Santa Claus," " Gordon Keith." ' 



This extract from " A Soldier of the Empire " 
depicts the patriotisni of the French soldier, and 
the closing pa&graph emphasizes the fact that if 
we have won^hp;' Cross of Honor," it will show 
upon our br^st, even after death. 






A SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE 

" Go back. Upon it depends the fate of France. Hold 
ft for France," the officer called after Jiim. 

The wprds were heard perfectly clear even above the 

din of b^tle which was steadily increasing all along the 

line, anithey stirred the old soldier like a trumpet. No 

rear fo^j\im! He turned and pu^ed back up the hill at 

a run. f' The road had somewhat changed since he left, 

but he marked it not; shot and shell were plowing across 

his path more thickly, but he heeded them not ; in his 

ears rang the words, — "For France! " They came like 

an echo from the past ; it was the same cry he had heard 

at.Waterloo, when the soldiers of France that summer 

day had died for France and *the Emperor, with a cheer 

gf¥ theijr lips. ''For France!" The words were conse- 

^ar^ted ; the Emperor himself had used them. He had 

iheard him, and would have died then; should he not die 

fnow f6f her! Was ft not^'glorlous to die for France, and 






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■#sr 



'u 



THOMAS NELSON PAGE 231 

have men say he had fought for her when a babe, and had 
died for her when an old man ! . . . 

Although this had occupied but a few minutes, mo- 
mentous changes had taken place on the ridge above. The 
sound of the battle had somewhat changed, and with the 
roar of artillery were mingled now the continuous rattle 
of the musketry and the shouts and cheers of the contend- 
ing troops. The fierce onslaught of the Prussians had 
broken the line somewhere beyond the batteries and the 
French were being borne back. Almost immediately the 
slope was filled with retreating men hurrying back in the 
demoralization of a panic. All order was lost. It was 
a rout. The soldiers of his own regiment began to rush 
by the spot where the old sergeant stood above his dead 
son's body. Recognizing him, some of his comrades seized 
his arm and attempted to hurry him along, but with a 
fierce exclamation the old soldier shook them off, and 
raising his voice so that he was heard even above the 
tumult of the rout, he shouted, "Are ye all cowards? 
Rally for France — for France — ! " 

They tried to bear him along ; the officers they said were 
dead. The Prussians had captured the guns, and had 
broken the whole line; but it was no use, still he shouted 
that rallying cry, " For France, for France, vive la 
France, vive I'Empereur," and steadied by the war-cry, 
accustomed to obey an officer, the men around him fell 
Instinctively into something like order, and for an instant 
the rout was arrested. The fight was renewed over 
Pierre's dead body. As they had, however, truly said, 
the Prussians were too strong for them. They had carried 
the line and were now pouring down the hill by thousands 
in the ardor of hot pursuit; the line on either side was 



232 THOMAS NELSON PAGE 

swept away, and while the gallant little band about the 
old soldier still stood and fought desperately, they were 
soon surrounded. There was no thought of quarter; none 
was asked, none was given. Cries, curses, cheers, shots, 
blows, were mingled together, and clear above all rang 
the old soldier's war-cry, " For France, for France, vive 
la France, vive TEmpereur! " It was the refrain from an 
older and bloodier field. He thought he was at Waterloo. 
Mad with excitement, the men took up the cry and fought 
like tigers, but the issue could not be doubtful. 

Man after man fell, shot or clubbed down with the 
cry '* For France! " on his lips, and his comrades, stand- 
ing astride his body, fought with bayonets and clubbed 
muskets till they too fell in turn. Almost the last one was 
the old sergeant. Wounded to death, and bleeding from 
numberless gashes, he still fought, shouting his battle cry, 
" For France! " till his musket was hurled spinning from 
his shattered hand, and, staggering senseless back, a dozen 
bayonets were driven into his breast, crushing out for- 
ever the brave spirit of the soldier of the Empire. 

It was best, for France was lost . . . 

That night a group of Prussian officers going over the 
field with lanterns looking after their wounded, stopped 
near the spot where the old sergeant had made his last 
stand for France, a spot remarkable even on that bloody 
slope for the heaps of dead of both armies literally piled 
upon each other. 

*' It was just here," said one, " that they made that 
splendid rally." 

A second, looking at the body of the old French ser- 
geant lying amid heaps of slain with his face to the sky, 
as he saw his scars, said simply: 



THOMAS NELSON PAGE 233 

" There died a brave soldier." 

Another, older than the first, bending closer to count 
the bayonet wounds, caught the gleam of something in 
the light of the lantern, and, stooping to examine a broken 
cross of the Legion on the dead man's breast, said 
reverently : 

" He was a soldier of the Empire." 

By permission of author and Century Co., publishers. 
New York. 












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